THE TAILOR & THE SEAMSTRESS
IV. The Muse
Monsieur Maillot was busy at his accounts, or whatever it was that he did, since it could not be anything to do with fashion.
Remy knocked at his door, entering when he heard the prerequisite, "Entrez!"
His stride was buoyant, confident. He went over and unceremoniously slapped a drawing on to M. Maillot's desk.
"And what is this?" the older man demanded at his lead designer's sudden bout of uncharacteristic insolence.
"It is a dress, Monsieur Maillot," Remy declared animatedly. "To headline our summer collection."
Monsieur Maillot had never seen LeBeau this energetic before – and LeBeau was a naturally energetic man. Incredulous, though curious despite himself, he raised the pince-nez on his nose and gazed down at the sketch.
It was a handsome gown indeed. At least, it wasn't one of those ridiculous tubes LeBeau seemed to have found a fondness for, but possessed a waist, neatly cinched in by what appeared to be a broad silk sash. Still, there was something suspiciously tubular about it, till one arrived at the magnificent train, which almost appeared to leave a trail of flames flickering in its wake.
Intrigued, he flipped through the swatches of fabric LeBeau had pinned to the paper. Silk, and mesh, and glittering sequins.
"LeBeau," he finally spoke stiffly. "Why – this is red. With smatterings of orange, and yellow, I grant you. But chiefly, it is all sorts of red."
"An unfashionable colour," Remy acknowledged cheerfully. "But it won't be, when this gown is unveiled."
M. Maillot stared at him, quite astonished.
"A bold assertion!"
Remy grinned broadly.
"A true one. The Phoenix Dress will set all of New York on fire. Paris too, I'll wager. And London."
M. Maillot's astonishment was rapidly growing.
"My man, what has gotten into you? You seem almost possessed!"
"A woman, sir," LeBeau declared without shame. "A woman has possessed me, may the bon Dieu help me!"
M. Maillot lifted a thinning eyebrow. He was not a man who was given to romantic flights of fancy at all.
"Ah, you have found another muse, have you, LeBeau?" he intoned dispassionately. "It is just as well, I suppose. If she brings me more tolerable designs such as this one, we shall expand our clientele quite rapidly, I daresay."
Remy frowned. He couldn't quite tell whether his employer was humouring him or not.
"Only tolerable, sir? Do you not find this to be my best work thus far?"
A faint smile creased Maillot's thin lips.
"I do," he admitted wryly. "You have discovered waists again, monsieur. I approve."
"When a lady has a slender waist," LeBeau asserted, "she ought to flaunt it."
"Indeed," Maillot concurred drily. "And your muse has a very slender waist, I suppose."
Remy laughed.
"Indeed she does. Come, sir. Please be explicit. Does this design meet with your approval? I want to start work right away."
Maillot hesitated. He was a little surprised to find that his lead designer's mood was quite infectious!
"We really ought to ask the opinion of the board members first…"
"To hell with the board members!" Remy almost shouted. "When they see it, they will fall madly in-love with it, if they know what's good for them. Divine inspiration shall not be denied! You will approve this, or I will be damned myself!"
At this point, Maillot didn't know whether to be amused or alarmed.
"Very well," he said. "I shall approve it." From the depths of his desk, he brought out the stamp he so loved to use, yet so sparingly had cause to do so, and marked the sketch APPROVED.
"Bring me more of this type of gem, LeBeau, and we may have a worthy little collection ready for the summer," he commented. "You may even win that competition Mr. Selfridge just announced."
Remy paused.
"Competition? Mr. Selfridge? Of the Selfridges & Co.? In London?"
"The very same." Maillot handed him a leaflet that had been resting at his elbow. "There is a prize too, for the winning designer."
Remy quickly scanned the document.
"Two thousand dollars!" he exclaimed.
"Yes. Quite the tidy sum. Now if you please, LeBeau, I have some work to attend to. And I believe you do too."
-oOo-
Anna Raven was sitting at her worktable, humming an absent tune as she worked on embroidering tiny beads into the panel of champagne gold silk. There was a little smile on her face, one that moved Kitty, who was sitting at the table beside her, to ask:
"So he kissed you?"
Anna's smile deepened as her fingers moved deftly back and forth.
"Yes. And I kissed him back."
Kitty was all agog.
"Of course you did, Miss!"
Anna gave a soft little laugh.
"Kitty, take my advice. Never kiss a man unless you wish to. Men always believe we wish to, but sometimes we most emphatically do not!"
She glanced up at the clock. It was three after midday.
"Men are rather presumptuous sometimes," Kitty admitted gloomily. "But I am too afraid to slap them when they become impertinent." She paused as Anna set down her work and walked over to the window. By now, Kitty had become used to her supervisor going to the window at midday. It was only because they were friends that she felt able to also set down her own work and join her there. She gazed between the slats and saw the man named Remy LeBeau on the front steps of the Maison Maillot, a cigarette between his fingers.
"What was his kiss like?" she asked what she had been burning to know all along.
Anna huffed out a pent-up little breath. She didn't know how she could describe such a kiss.
"Kitty," she began honestly. "That is a secret I think I would rather keep to myself."
For a moment she parted the venetian blinds a little wider, with just the tips of her fingers.
"I never did thank you," she said absently, "for helping me that day."
"It is nothing, Miss."
"Thank you, all the same."
"You're very welcome." She followed Anna's gaze intently a moment. "Lord, but he is handsome, Miss! Why don't you go down to meet him?"
Anna grimaced.
"If anyone here were to see me fraternising with someone from Maillot's—!"
"Miss," Kitty protested, "it is your lunch break. You may do what you please with it! No one here has a right to police who you speak to on the street!"
It was a reasonable assertion – yet she knew at least one person would not appreciate her doing such a thing, if she was caught at it. Still… passion had made her bold. It had been several days now – almost a week! – and she could not help but long to connect with him again. Miss Boudreaux had returned on a couple of occasions during that time – yet on neither occasion had he accompanied her.
She would be risking a lot to speak to him again, if she was found out… yet strangely, she found she didn't much care. To not speak to him again, and soon, was becoming intolerable to her.
She turned away from the window with sudden purpose.
"You're right, Kitty. I'll go down and talk to him."
The younger girl could barely hold back her surprise, not having anticipated that her friend would take up her suggestion.
"But, Miss, what if—"
"Tell him I am taking my lunch break today," she cut in. She didn't bother with her hat and coat. She would not be out long, and the weather was so fine.
Within a minute she was out on the pavement, waiting for a carriage to cross – and when it had passed she stepped out into the street, calling to him before she had even got to the other side.
"Mr. LeBeau!"
He was a little stunned to see her, at first anyhow. Within a second or two, a smile had broken out on his face, that same lackadaisical smile that warmed her so effortlessly.
"Miss. Raven. What a surprise."
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. To join him on them would be stepping very firmly onto enemy territory, and she didn't dare countenance such a thing.
"A pleasant one, I hope," she said, a little shyly.
"Mais oui," he replied sunnily. He took her in quite openly. "You are busy at work now, Miss?"
It was only then that she realised that she was still wearing her work apron.
"Oh – yes."
"Of course." He nodded. "We're also very busy. The Selfridge competition is quite the incentive."
"Ah, yes!" She grinned absently at the reminder. "The competition!"
"Your designer is taking part also, I should imagine. Being the genius he is."
She nodded.
"Most definitely."
There was a pause. She felt suddenly silly, not knowing what else to say.
"You're out here," she said after an awkward moment, "every day, at the same time."
He cocked his head sideways.
"How do you know that?"
"I see you," she replied, pointing up at her window. "From there. I thought today… you might like to see me too."
His gaze was warm, almost smouldering, uncurling a thrilling thread of warmth inside her.
"I'd like to see you every day," he confessed in a lower tone. The warm thread in her lengthened. She hid it reflexively.
"You have not accompanied Miss Boudreaux on her visits this past week," she noted causally. "I thought, after your last visit… perhaps you might. Yet you haven't."
He was astute enough to read what she didn't explicitly admit to – her disappointment that he hadn't.
"Well," he answered, a little sheepishly. "Miss. Boudreaux and I had a falling out. My company is no longer pleasing to her, I am afraid."
The smile dropped from Anna's lips. She remembered all too well the look the beautiful actress had given her, upon realising that Remy had been alone with her in the fabric store. Female intuition led her to the truth of the matter almost at once.
"You were once lovers," she spoke quietly. "And she does not like you seeing me, nor does she like her visits being used as a pretext for you to do so."
His devil-may-care expression turned serious at the quiet conviction of her words.
"How could you guess such a thing, Miss Raven?"
She looked at the ground with a shrug.
"You may not be married to her, nor even engaged," she said. "But you were still far too familiar with one another to be simple acquaintances."
His expression turned wry. He had been praised for his intuition in the past, but the feminine variety still never ceased to amaze him.
"I can hide nothing from either of you," he quipped humorously. "I hope you don't think any less of me for once having loved her, Miss. Raven."
Yet again she sensed that he gave away as much as was convenient at any given time. And yet again, she did not heed any of the warning signals such knowledge might have set off. Even if she had been inclined to do so, the moment they had kissed they had both crossed a boundary from which there was no return.
"Even I cannot blame a man for giving his heart to a woman so beautiful or accomplished," she said with a slight smile.
"She is nothing compared to you," he said sincerely – with enough sincerity to take her breath away.
"I am sure you say the same thing to every new woman who takes your fancy," she said.
He could not deny it.
"Perhaps I speak the truth now," he rejoined.
"Only perhaps?"
"If I said 'most certainly', I fear you would not believe me."
She didn't, not quite. Still, she enjoyed their witty, quickfire repartee, if nothing else.
"I should go," she said decidedly, thinking that their conversation was quickly becoming too flirtatious. "It wouldn't do if one of my fellow workers were to catch me out here, talking to you."
She made to cross the street again when he stopped her.
"Miss. Raven."
She swivelled on the spot to face him once more, unable not to.
"When will I see you again?"
She stared. That he gave her the choice of naming a time and a date for another rendezvous… or of rejecting him outright… there was danger in handing her such agency!
"This Saturday," she answered quickly, before she could think better of it. "Meet me at Harry's at seven."
Harry's. Safe, neutral ground. He knew it to be so.
"All right," he replied good-naturedly.
She didn't dare entertain saying another word. With a spring in her step, she turned and hurried back across the street to Burford's.
-oOo-
It was the first time she was not late.
Of course, it being a Saturday, she had no work to tie her to extra hours at her frame, or her worktable.
This time, by way of greeting, Remy chanced the Gallic intimacy of a featherlight kiss upon each of her cheeks. It was an affectation she accepted with a smile.
They entered into Harry's and were again given the best seat in the house. He noticed, as she slipped off her coat and hat and gloves and handed them to their obliging host, that she seemed to be in a merrier mood than usual. Her pretty smile was in full force, and quite compelling. That alone held quite a lot of promise for the evening, he thought. He did her the courtesy of holding out her chair for her, before settling into his own.
She was wearing a dress for him this time, a chic cotton concoction in pure white, embellished sparingly with carefully beaded embroidery in pearl and scarlet at the hem, sleeves and neckline. Her slender waist was cinched in by a sash of blood red satin. Where usually her hair was hidden under a kerchief, now it was tied up by a thin band of the same satin that adorned her waist. The textiles were mostly simple and cheap… yet elegantly and tastefully cut and constructed.
He took her in with an appreciative smile.
"You're looking exceptionally fine tonight, Miss. Raven."
Every compliment he gave her brought a flush of pleasure to her face. He wasn't sure he would ever tire of it.
"As are you, Mr. LeBeau. What a pinstripe! Very bold!"
Her love of fabrics, and how he wore them, was, as always, especially gratifying to him.
"Thank you," he replied modestly.
"And that necktie," she added, looking as if she wanted to touch it. "That silk must've been expensive."
"As must that satin have been," he rejoined, nodding at her own ensemble. She gave a little laugh.
"I saved up for several months for the extravagance," she confessed. "This dress couldn't have done without it."
"Then you know I did the same," he lied. "In fashion, little extravagances go a long way."
"Indeed they do," she agreed with a twinkle.
They ate, and drank, and chatted – and flirted, of course. The pleasure of her company, as always, was tempered by that indomitable thread of restraint that seemed to colour every word, every look, every smile she gave him. It made him long to pull on that thread, to see what it would unravel.
"Do you dance, Miss Raven?" he asked her, once dinner was finished.
Her eyes widened at the question, just a little.
"Are you inviting me to go dancing with you, Mr. LeBeau?" she said.
"But of course, if it is something you like to do," he replied. "It is the weekend; and the night is still young." She looked uncertain, and so he added cajolingly: "You look as if you've danced a turn or two in your time, chere."
She didn't deny it.
"I'm a little out of practice, I'm afraid."
"Never mind that. A little practice, and it will come back to you before long." He smiled. "Indulge me a little, Miss. Raven. If you dislike it terribly, we will leave."
It was an assurance she obviously welcomed, and, at least for the time being, had her convinced.
"Well… all right."
She took the hand he offered her, and together they left.
-oOo-
The dancehall was like a living thing, swelling with the sound of music and the scent of alcohol and the undulating tide of bodies. He had been here often, of course, with other conquests – he sank with ease into the feverish depths of this cavern, this den of iniquity and licentiousness his demanding father would so disapprove of. If only his father had known how comforting this place was, how familiar! What primeval source of solace the closely swaying bodies and the glittering costumes instilled him!
Remy was careful not to lead his companion directly onto the dancefloor, sensing that she was not quite ready yet to take the proverbial plunge. Together they skirted the whirling couples, past the bar, to the only little table left unoccupied.
"What would you like?" he asked her, indicating with a nod to the bar.
She didn't even hesitate.
"A Sezarac, if you please."
He raised an eyebrow at the bold choice, but made no comment and moved away to fulfil her order.
When he returned with his whiskey and her cocktail, she was watching the dancers whirling by with a kind of absent intensity on her face. Only when he set the drink before her did it seem to break her from their spell.
"Thank you," she said.
He took his seat and watched her sip her drink.
"Have you ever been to New Orleans?" he asked.
She darted a glance at him.
"Oh – yes. Only the once." It seemed to trigger an intimate memory in her, for her pale cheeks flushed, briefly. "Why do you ask?"
"That cocktail was invented there."
"Oh? Then it was probably there I had it first."
He lifted the whiskey to his lips and looked over at the dance.
"I was born there," he spoke quietly.
She didn't seem surprised, having already guessed his home state.
"It is a beautiful place," she said, the words somehow guarded.
"Some parts, yes." He gave a wry smile. "Others, not so much."
She considered her drink a moment.
"Of course, that depends on where you find beauty," she said slowly. "I thought it lively, and exciting, and wild. But that was a long time ago," she finished on a tinge of regret. It drew his gaze back to her. Lively. Exciting. Wild. Such descriptors were hints of the thread he longed to unravel in her.
"That red suits you," he said, impulsively. She smiled politely at the compliment.
"Thank you," she replied. "It is not a fashionable colour."
"Not yet," he agreed with a small grin. "The colours we wear should not be determined by what is currently a la mode."
"I quite agree."
"I'm glad to hear it. You wear a lot of earthy tones. Greens and browns and yellows. But red is really your colour, I fancy."
She made no comment on his observation. The song had drawn to a close, and most of the couples were breaking apart. When the next tune started, it was a simple one-step.
"Do you feel the urge to dance yet, Miss. Raven?" he asked her hopefully. She laughed.
"My drink is strong, but I might need a little longer for it to embolden me enough."
He smirked over at her.
"Let me buy you another."
"Not yet. I prefer not to give men the chance to take advantage. And I know your intentions towards me are not quite saintly, Mr. LeBeau."
He grinned broadly at her frankness.
"Chere, if your kiss is anything to go by, I don't think your intentions towards me could be called saintly either."
The playful remark held such a nugget of truth that it left her veritably tongue-tied.
"Mr. LeBeau," she finally managed to burst out, "you are quite impertinent!"
He laughed.
"Women shouldn't have to hide their passions," he declared what he truly believed. "We are in a new century – an age of progress! I believe in the right of a woman to express her emotions freely, as much as I do their right to 'free and untrammelled movement'!"
His exuberant honesty brought a sardonic smirk to her face.
"And their right to vote too, I hope."
"Mais bien sur."
It was her turn to chuckle.
"You only say that because you don't wish to offend me."
"Miss. Raven," he said, serious now. "If a foolish man is allowed to vote, I see no reason why women – who are the infinitely more intelligent sex – shouldn't be allowed to do the same."
He wasn't sure what he had said, but whatever it was it caused her to throw her head back and laugh, long and loud. A bemused little smile lit his face. He had never seen her like this; but he very much liked it.
"Monsieur LeBeau," she spoke, once she could laugh no more. "I believe you would say anything to please a woman." She unexpectedly got to her feet and held out her hand to him. "This song is not yet over. Shall we dance?"
It was the moment he had been waiting for, and so he was more than happy to oblige her by leading her to the dancefloor. Almost immediately they were whisked into the crowd.
Was she rusty?
Perhaps just a little.
Within a minute or so, it seemed to him that she had regained whatever proficiency she had lost. He found her to be an accomplished dancer, as she was with almost everything she seemed to turn her attention to. It was a simple one-step, to be sure – but there was a natural grace in her, an innate spring to her step, an energy that told him that, at one point at least, she had enjoyed the sport a great deal, and that she had engaged in it often.
"I'm beginning to think," he said mid-dance, "that all your assertions to being a poor dancer were nothing but simple teases meant to torture me, Miss. Raven."
A carefree grin touched her lips.
"It all seems to be coming back to me rather quickly, Mr. LeBeau." She passed him an appraising look. "It helps when one's partner is such an able lead, of course."
She skipped merrily along with him through a particularly jaunty section of music, all previous insecurity now firmly put aside.
"Where did you learn?" he asked.
"Where else but through observation?"
"Ah!" He quirked an eyebrow. "Observation!"
"When one is dirt poor in the deep South, there's little a girl can do to amuse herself than splash around in the Mississippi and watch folks dance."
This was perhaps the most of her past he'd ever been able to glean from her. Being poor, he knew from experience, was quite the educator.
"And I suppose she might learn to dance herself, once she finds a suitable partner?" he prodded, as she twirled away from him and back into his arms with a flourish.
"Oh, when a girl finds a suitable partner," she began cheerfully, "she learns to dance very quickly."
"Undoubtedly," he quipped. "Dancing is a profitable pastime for ladies who wish to get close to potential lovers."
The corner of her mouth curled prettily.
"But of course. It's always been that way. Is that not why we're here after all, Mr. LeBeau?"
The impudence of her statement caught him off guard; but before he could make his response, the song came to end, and they broke apart, her with a breathless exclamation of pure delight.
"It would seem you are full of surprises, Miss. Raven," he remarked as he followed her back to the table. "Pretending to be intimidated by a rag-dance when you are really quite accomplished, drinking absinthe in your cocktails, and confessing to poaching lovers on the dancefloor."
She lifted her drink and took a coquettish sip as she eyed him.
"I confessed to no such thing!"
"Ma chere," he spoke, leaning over her shoulder and retrieving his whiskey, "you have confessed enough to me tonight, without outright saying so, that convinces me I have no need to debauch you."
He paused right by her ear, savouring the sudden closeness between them. She didn't flinch away, but merely twisted her face to his, locked eyes with him, and murmured:
"Does that disappoint you, Mr. LeBeau?"
His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips. He was sorely tempted to kiss her again.
"Not at all," he rejoined with a wolfish smile.
"Really? I should have thought debauching young women was one of your favourite past-times."
The compulsion to kiss her had almost become intolerable. He leaned in to taste her lips once more; but as he did so, she suddenly pulled away, distracted by the sound of another, fast-paced tune starting up.
"Do you cakewalk, Mr. LeBeau?" she asked him, as the couples began to form again.
Of course he did! He slipped his hand round her slender waist and led her back to the dancefloor. Now that the ice had been broken, it was as if some demon had possessed her. She danced with a desperation he hadn't seen before, a kind of frenzy taking her at the more frenetic tunes. They stopped only to drink some more, before a waltz began.
Once upon a time, this dance had been considered scandalous – the closeness of its partners an invitation to the debauchery she seemed to think him so acquainted with. Yet, ironically perhaps, he found that it was closeness he yearned for. Whatever demons she was exorcising in this place seemed to leave her as they fell into the waltz's rhythm; her mood calmed, mellowed. There was a faraway look in her eyes, a look that told him more than her words could have said.
It told him that there had once been another man she had held this close; another man whose body had swayed so intimately with hers; another man who had pressed his cheek to her own, and who had kissed her the way he longed to kiss her now.
There was another man who had possessed her, and thrown her away; who had unravelled the secret in her, and discarded what he had found.
Whatever he had left, the seamstress had gathered together and stitched up tight.
Whatever it was, he wanted it. He wanted the thing this other man had seen, had touched, the thing he perceived only in flashes and glimpses, in the shadow of her smiles, and in the passion of her kiss.
The want was a terrible thing, and as the song finished, and their bodies moved apart, it was all he could do not to press her to him again, not to beg her to give him relief.
He led her back to their table, his heart pounding like a freight train. He downed his third whiskey of the night, attempting to dull whatever eldritch magic she had cast on him… But even the eclipsing effect of the liquor could not drown her out.
Nothing in this world could now.
-oOo-
Anna settled back into her seat, breathing shakily at the heady intimacy of their waltz.
My! Kitty would have been quite incredulous to know that this was how she had passed her Saturday evening. She could hardly wait to tell her all about it.
Beside her, Remy was silent, his fingers clasped around an empty glass of liquor, his expression uncharacteristically distant.
He had pleased her this evening, in ways she could never have imagined. Rarely had a dance partner satisfied her as much as he had; and for a wonderful hour or two, she had found the years of toil and sacrifice dropping from her like a shed skin. Once more she had been young and poor and happy. Once more she had been foolish and in-love.
Such childish things, she thought! Toys, to be brought out and played with on nights such as these!
She finished her cocktail and set down her glass.
She was still exhilarated with all the hedonist carousing. Like Cinderella, she could have continued dancing until the magic spell was broken, and she was forced to retreat to the loneliness of her apartment, to the daily grind of Burford's.
Her companion, however, seemed to have lost the mood for more revelry. His gaze was in the bottom of his empty glass; and, with a roguish grin she leaned forward, touched his hand, and asked:
"Why, what is the matter, Mr. LeBeau? Have I quite exhausted you?"
She had meant it as a joke; but he did not take it as such. Abruptly he rose from his seat, removing his hand from under hers.
"Excuse me," he mumbled, and promptly disappeared. She assumed it was to fetch another drink; but when he returned it was with their hats and coats.
"We're leaving," he said firmly, handing her her clothing. She stared, stunned by his change in demeanour. What had she said, what had she done, to turn him so cold?
Wordlessly she rose from her seat and donned her coat and hat, her heart in her throat. She couldn't account for anything that might have made him so eager to leave.
When she was ready, he took her hand and marched her out of the dancehall, his stride impatient. It was almost as if something had possessed him; and when they were finally out on the street and the music was a distant murmur behind them, he tugged her round the side of the building and into a little alley. Once the shadows had swallowed them, he pressed her against the wall with his body, his fingers sliding up to cradle her face between his palms.
For a few silent moments his gaze met hers, a space of time in which she knew he was waiting for her permission.
And it had all happened so fast, so wildly unexpectedly… She could barely process a thing, except that not a single thing could make her say no to this now… Her palms smoothed up his chest, to say yes where her words could not… And his mouth captured hers, hungry and passionate and breathtakingly sensual, awakening a terrible need inside of her that she hadn't felt in what seemed like a relentless age.
She'd never been kissed like this by a man before.
Never.
To be lost in this moment… with someone like him… to allow herself to feel as she hadn't allowed herself to feel in so long… …
She wasn't sure when they stopped kissing, but it was barely by an inch; he gazed into her eyes, ran his thumbs along the line of her jaw tenderly yet covetously.
"Anna," he murmured, his lips so close to yet another kiss, "let me take you back to my place tonight."
Her heart had already been pounding in a glorious crescendo; but when he said the words, when he laid down what he wanted so freely, so unrepentantly, she felt as if her heart might crash right out of her chest. She could barely breathe.
"Mr. LeBeau—"
"Remy," he cut her off forcefully. "For the sake of all that's sacred, chere, call me by my name."
The words were almost violent. She sucked in a breath she could barely contain, said in a wavering voice:
"Remy. I'm not sure what sort of woman you think I am, but—"
"I don't care what sort of woman you are," he all but growled. "All I know is that I've never wanted a thing as much as I want you in this moment. Please say yes."
She was almost panting for breath. How could he know that every fibre of her being was saying yes to him at that very instant? And yet some miniscule part of her – the burned, damaged core of her – unequivocally said no.
"Remy," she breathed, surprised to feel tears pressing behind her eyelids, such was her distress, "Remy, please don't ask me to say yes. I—you know I can't."
Her hands were on his shoulders, and she pushed at them lightly but firmly. He blinked. It was a rejection he read effortlessly. Yet still he could not bring himself to fully break away from her.
"There was a time you would've said yes to me," he murmured, a strain of desperation in his voice. "There was a time you did say yes, to someone who wasn't me." She said nothing, her eyes smarting; but he took her chin between his fingers and made her look at him, adding: "I can see her in you. The woman you were. She gave your heart away. You thought you might never get it back. But it's still there. It's still inside you. Here."
So saying he pressed his palm against her chest… and she impulsively shied away from him as if burnt, wriggling out from under the weight of his body, her senses screeching.
"Stop!" she shot at him.
He did.
For a thrumming moment she put her arms around herself as if she could hold herself together. When she chanced a look at him, he was standing there silently, his hands hanging neutrally by his sides.
"Stop pretending you know me," she threw at him resentfully. "You don't. And it is cruel of you to use a woman's pain in order to cajole her into your bed. I would've thought – hoped – that such tactics were beneath you."
There were so many things she had expected him to say – yet he said none of them. Instead, he held her gaze and said softly, quietly:
"Sorry."
She looked aside, swallowing, unable to accept the apology. She had never felt so exposed.
"Anna," he finally said, taking her hand tentatively between his own. "Anna, forgive me. I only asked for what I was presumptuous enough to think you wanted. If I was mistaken…" he paused, reassessed, began again, "But it was still wrong of me to ask you. I'm sorry."
She raised her gaze to his fully. Despite everything, he snared her effortlessly with that dark-eyed gaze of his. Yet again her heart lurched horribly, beautifully, inside her.
"I want to see you again," he said quietly, helplessly, hopefully.
He was so gentle now. She could barely trust it.
"And I you," she confessed, just as quietly.
It felt like an impasse. His thumbs subconsciously rubbed her knuckles with an earnest tenderness. Despite everything, she could not take her hand back. She could not move away from his touch, nor his presence.
In the distance, the clock struck midnight.
"It's late," she said, thankful for the timely intrusion. "I should go."
He made no protest, relinquishing her hand slowly. She retreated, one step, two steps, back into the circle of light thrown out by the streetlamp. The muffled strains of laughter and piano music once more filled the night air.
He had wounded her. But he had also awakened something in her she wasn't sure how long she could deny.
"When you want to see me," she murmured, "look up at my window, when you take your break. I'll be there. I'll always be there."
She took another step back.
"Goodnight, Mr. LeBeau."
Her voice was almost a whisper. She wasn't sure he had even heard. But she could say no more, not under the needful power of his gaze. Danger haunted every moment that they shared. She felt it viscerally now. Even as she turned and hurried away, it ghosted her every step. She knew now it would never leave her alone.
.
Remy stepped out from the alleyway and watched her leave.
How effortlessly, how carelessly the seamstress set him on fire!
What was it Belle had said?
Burn that little seamstress, if you dare! I should hope she burns you back!
And now, by some irreverent twist of fate, he felt that her wish had come to pass.
He was on fire. No heartfelt sorries or sincere self-denials could quell it. Anna Raven had done something to him. She had set him aflame, and was now refusing to put him out.
"You were right, Belle," he muttered miserably to himself. "You were right."
He was a fool, whatever angle he looked at it. A fool for letting her go. A fool for pushing too hard. A fool for inviting her back into his space, knowing full well that if she ever stepped a foot into his lavish apartment, she would realise he could not be the mere tailor he pretended to be.
It hardly seemed to matter anymore. He was tired of lying to her. That at least was the truth.
He hailed a cab, he got inside. He did not pass her on the way back.
.
He went back to his home, to his bed, to endure yet another night alone, and without her.
-oOo-