Chapter 4: Love in the Night
Gambit blinked as she sat beside him, coming slowly down from the spell she had woven. She looked flushed, and nervous. He took her hand in his. "P'tite, that was beautiful," he said. "Remy never hear anybody play like dat here. What was it?"
She blushed. "Thank you. It was called 'Higher Ground', Remy. Barbra Streisand sang it, I believe," she said.
Their order came, and he watched as she draped the napkin over her lap and picked up her fork. She had ordered a salmon fillet, sautéed in a delicate lemon butter sauce, with angel-hair pasta on the side in a creamy sauce. It looked delicious. He picked up his own fork and took a bite of his steak. It was so tender he barely needed to use his knife. He savored the taste, then opened his eyes to see her eyeing his plate curiously. "Wan' a taste, p'tite?" he said, offering her a small piece on his fork.
Cat blinked. She shouldn't, she really shouldn't, the Master was watching in the corner and she could feel him staring at her, his glare digging a hole between her shoulder blades. But his expression was so hopeful she grinned, and forgot about the watcher in the corner. She opened her mouth, and he slipped the morsel in, watching almost mesmerized as her full, sensuous lips closed on the fork and the piece. He wanted to kiss those lips, oh, how he wanted to…
"Well?" He snapped out of his reverie, to see her offering him a bite of her salmon. "Huh, p'tite?"
She grinned. "I asked if you wanted to try mine," she said, waving the tiny piece of fish in front of him. He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, I was t'inking o' somet'in' else," he said. He opened his mouth and she slipped her fork in, then watched, her eyes glazing slightly as he chewed the bite, his lips moving with his jaw. She had a wild urge to kiss those lips, that strong jaw, the chin with its sexy five o'clock stubble just beginning…
She dropped her eyes, smiling softly to herself at her fantasies, completely forgetting the man sitting in the corner.
George Randall, the Master of Assassins, sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers agitatedly on the table before him. He'd never seen Bloodcat…his little cat, he insisted to himself …looking so beautiful. Where had she gotten that turquoise dress? It was making him sick, the way they had fed each other, so carefully, so gently. Seeing her face when she looked at Remy LeBeau made him angry. She was his; he owned her. She was forgetting herself.
He wasn't jealous…okay, yes he was, quite a bit. He told himself a long time ago that although he wanted the little cat, she was too valuable as an assassin to get involved with her. Those thoughts fled from his mind now, and his hands crushed the delicate linen napkin in his lap as he dreamed of having her in his bed. Stretched out, yes, that was it. Stretched out between his bedposts and writhing under the kiss of his mouth and his lash, crying with pain and pleasure and need as he flogged her white body. Then he would fall on her and take her hard, dominating her, feel her body rise under him, opening her long legs for him…
His pants were too tight. Why had he worn this suit? It was too small for him. He watched, getting colder and colder with fury, as they sat there, laughing, giggling, and talking…She had seen him as she got up from the piano, he knew she had, and yet here she was, the little strumpet, flaunting her body for this man who didn't deserve her. He would show her who she belonged to when he got his hands on her next.
He had never had a female assassin in his employ before. All had been men. He had a small iron tucked away in his armoire, a branding iron with a stylized R on it. He had branded all of his other assassins with it, a permanent reminder for all of them that he owned them. He had held off branding the little cat, not wanting to spoil the whiteness of her skin with the brand. But perhaps it would serve to remind her who owned her, her body and services, for he had no intention of releasing her after her contract was up. He wanted her for the rest of her life, or at least until he tired of her.
His eyes focused again on the couple in front of him. They were on the desert course now, and doing the same stupid thing with their ice cream that he had seen them doing with the dinner. Oh, yes, a brand would be perfect. The little slut was leaning forward now, accepting the spoonful of strawberry ice cream, and he saw the deep, shadowed valley between her breasts. Yes, there. It would be perfect. His R branded on the curve of those luscious breasts, where her lover would see it, and ask questions…questions she couldn't answer without driving him away.
Randall opened his suitcase and drew out a sheet of paper. He penned a note for her, a few brief sentences, and tucked it in an envelope, sealed it, and put it in his pocket. He waved to the waitress to bring his check, and as he waited, he fueled his rage with the scene in front of him.
Remy licked a dab of ice cream off her nose, and listened to her giggle. He put the spoon down in the empty dish, wiped his lips with the napkin, and looked her in the eye. "P'tite, do you know de song 'All I Ask Of You'?"
"Yes," she said. He got up, taking her hand, drawing her up to the piano platform, and told her, "Play it for me." She struck the opening chords, and he raised his voice and sang. He didn't have the best voice in the world, but he'd never had any of his dates complain when he romanced them with song.
"No more talk of darkness,
Forget these wide-eyed fears, I'm here
Nothing can harm you
My words will warm and calm you.
Let me be your freedom;
Let daylight dry your tears, I'm here
With you, beside you,
To guard you and to guide you…"
Her voice twined around the notes, rising clear and delicate above his rough baritone.
"Then say you love me every winter morning.
Turn my head with talk of summertime!
Say you need me with you, now and always,
Promise me that all you say is true;
That's all I ask of you."
Cat closed her eyes and gave herself over to the song and the man beside her, opening her throat and singing as she had not done in a very long time. It had been six years since she'd really sung, and it had been for her baby son that last fateful night as she and her husband prepared to go to bed. She had been so happy, sure her problems were over, and yet they were just beginning. Her melancholy added an extra vibrancy to the song, and the other patrons of the restaurant were spellbound. Even the wait staff stopped, entranced.
All except the man sitting in the corner. He slapped the money down to cover the bill, and got up, striding to the door as fast as he could without running. He jumped into his Mercedes and peeled out of the parking lot.
Inside, as they finished the song, the restaurant manager bustled up to them. "That was wonderful," he said to the smiling couple getting ready to descend from the platform. "We need some good players in here, my dear," he said to Cat warmly. "Would you consider coming here as a regular? We would love to have you too, of course," he said hastily to Remy, but his words were directed to the blushing young woman in front of him.
"I'll consider it," Cat said to him honestly, thinking how wonderful it would be to be able to actually earn her money rather than kill for it. Amid the man's pleas she gathered her purse and Gambit paid the bill, then they left.
"Did you see that restaurant manager's face?" she giggled as they drove back to her apartment through the almost non-existent late night traffic. "I thought he was going to fall over and kiss my shoes, he was begging so hard."
Gambit laughed as they parked in the garage and he got out. "You were a hit," he said. Cat grabbed her purse and stepped out. As her foot hit the pavement, however, her shoe slipped and she lurched sideways with a cry. He ran a hand across her back to catch her, and she yelped in pain. "P'tite, what wrong?"
"Nothing," she said, grabbing her ankle to find an excuse for the look of pain on her face. He had brushed the fabric of her sweater across the still-tender welts and caused her to cry in pain.
Remy scooped her up, one arm under her knees, one across her back, and now she was in agony, with all the weight of her body crushing her sweater between her welts and his arm. Tears sprang to her eyes, and Remy, seeing it, figured he should get her in the apartment right away.
He put her down in her kitchen chair and went to her fridge, taking out the tray of ice and dumping a handful of them into a plastic bag. He wrapped the bag in a towel and placed it on her ankle. "Hol' dat dere, chere," he said. He scooped her up and took her into her darkened bedroom, but before he could turn on the light, she had grabbed his shirt and pulled him down beside her. He felt for her sweater in the darkness, pushing it off her shoulders, then the dress zipper followed. She drew in a sharp breath of pain as his hand passed over her throbbing back, but the pain was quickly lost in the desire flooding her senses. She touched him hesitantly, her breath coming harder in the darkness, wondering what on earth she was doing, but the drinks and her desire got the better of her, and she gave in, her hands finding Remy's belt and zipper in the darkness.
Much later, they both lay back on the bed, exhausted and content. Cat was drowsing a bit when he pushed himself up on his elbow and reached across her to turn on the light. Bright, garish light bathed them both, and Remy drew in a breath at what he saw. Cat cringed inwardly, knowing she couldn't find any excuses now.
He stared at her back, which until now had been hidden from him, and he bit his lip. Five fresh red lines made a stark contrast to the fine, white scars that crossed her back from her shoulder blades to her hips, disappearing under the blankets. He had a feeling that if he looked, those white lines would scar her buttocks too. "P'tite," he whispered, unable to fathom how they'd gotten there. "Mon Dieu, what de hell happen'?" He sat up, his fingers tracing the white lines as he counted them. Thirty. Thirty slashes on her back, old, healed, but the pain she must have suffered until they did…
"Chere…" He shook his head. He couldn't find the words to say what he wanted to, and instead he sat up and touched her shoulder. "What happened?" he asked her, and her heart nearly broke. She pulled away from him and left him sitting there on her bed, running into her bathroom and slamming the door.
Remy got up and went to that door. She hadn't locked it, and he pushed it open. She crouched in the corner, her arm resting on the ledge of the bathtub, her face buried in that arm, crying stormily. He crossed the cold tile, sat down behind her. For long moments he just sat there, feeling the cold of the floor leech the heat out of his backside as he tried to comfort the sobbing young woman in his arms. After a bit he began to distinguish words.
"I can't…I really can't…Oh, God, Remy…I'm sorry…please…" She kept repeating it over and over, brokenly, and he realized he was not going to get a straight answer from her about the cause of those fresh wounds, or the old white lines he'd seen. At least, not now. He decided not to press her about it, and he sat on the edge of the bathtub, gathering her in his arms, making soft shushing sounds as he calmed her. When she stopped sniffling he said, "I won't ask, chere. You tell Remy what happen when you feel comfortable wit' it. Meanwhile, do you have anyt'in' I can put on dat?"
"In the medicine cabinet behind the mirror," she sniffled, getting up. He took a quick look as she stood. Yep, the scars went down over her buttocks too. When she told him who was responsible for this he was going to hunt the bastard down and make him pay for the pain she'd suffered.
He took the salve from the cabinet and went to the bedroom, where she was sitting on the edge of the bed. He said gently, "Lie down, chere." She lay on her stomach on the bed, and he straddled her from behind, her long legs between his knees. He dabbed the strong-smelling stuff on her back, then began to gently work it into the welts. She gasped several times as he struck a particularly sore spot, but never cried out.
He finished, got off her, and sat in front of her as she looked down, her fingers fiddling nervously with a stray thread on her sheet. "One question, chere," he said finally, cupping her chin in his hand and gently drawing her face up to his. "Dis bastard dat did dis to you; he don' hurt you…any ot'er way, does he?" She looked confused.
He let out his breath all at once, in exasperation. "Rape, chere. Please tell Remy he don' rape you."
"No," she said quietly. "No, he doesn't. He's never touched me. Not like that."
He sighed. "Dat a good t'ing, or I wouldn' let you go till you tell me where to fin' him."
She leaned forward, fear in her blue eyes, and placed a hand on his arm. "Remy, promise me you won't go looking for him. He's dangerous. If he sees you, you're dead." He was about to say something when he took a closer look at the young woman in front of him. She was afraid. For him. After what she'd apparently suffered at the man's hands, she wasn't afraid for herself, but for him. He bit back what he was going to say and lay back into the pillows. She curled up next to him for a moment, and felt something cold hit her foot. The bag of ice lay forgotten on the end of the bed, and there was a big cold spot in the middle of her bed. She chuckled weakly and started to get up to take the ice back to the kitchen.
"Non. Stay dere, p'tite. I get rid of it." He took the ice and the towel to the kitchen.
He saw a white envelope lying on the floor by the front door, and picked it up. In a harsh, undeniably masculine scrawl, the name 'Catryne' was printed on it. He wanted to open it more than anything else in his life, but he didn't. "P'tite," he said instead, walking into the bedroom. "Dis be in the door mail slot for you." he stood watching her as she opened it.
Bloodcat, said the note. I saw you and your lover in the restaurant. You saw me too. Don't deny it. I want you in the Assignment Room at nine o'clock tomorrow evening. Wear the same dress you wore tonight.
It wasn't signed. It didn't have to be. She knew who had sent it.
The Master sat in his room below the bookshop, planning.
He would take her to that restaurant. She would sing for him the way she had sung for the mark. Then, when they got back here, he would make her sing another song; one of pain, to the music of his whip. Then he would brand her with his mark, break her, and make her feel how much power he had over her.
His lips curved in a cold, cruel smile.