Chapter 7

[Author's Note: hi :) review it if you like it.. thankkkkssssss]

For the entirety of my return journey, I squirmed restlessly in the bucket seat of my truck. I was beyond desperate to see her again and confirm what I already thought to be the truth- she'd acquired a first edition copy of the book I'd quoted to her on the day we'd met. The possibility of this truth had my heart fluttering madly, not too dissimilar to the furious beating of a swan's wings.

I couldn't forget the metaphor that Mr. Wilder had presented to me. He'd gone so far as to call me the white swan and even Odettte. Perhaps I was the white swan. My own vulnerability was apparent, especially in the presence of my newest acquaintance. But what did that mean for me? The shopkeeper and I had discussed, too, my new employers and my safety in light of my lack of interest in the Cullen patriarch. His statement rang again and again in my mind like a gong- There is no man on this Earth, aside from her husband of course, with courage enough to even address her directly. I believe if any mortal man had the gall to even attempt an interaction, he would be smited on the spot. But not only had Ms. Cullen spoken to me- she'd touched me. She'd even- did I dare to say it?- flirted with me.

When the wheels of my truck came to a stop in the driveway of the sweeping Victorian mansion, my heart was in my throat. I sat for a few moments trying to get ahold of myself. I inhaled, counted to ten, exhaled, counted to ten, inhaled again.. I willed myself back into semi-composure and then got out of the truck and headed inside, every step threatening to throw me back into a frenzy.

But the build up proved to be all for nothing because when I got inside, I realized that she was not there.

One of the younger maids was running a feather duster over the surfaces of the furniture in the central living era. I told myself to resist my following actions, but ultimately lost that battle.

"Excuse me," I said to the maid, "hi."

The girl, younger than me maybe, but not by a lot, faced me, startled. "Oh," she said, her voice confirming her already meek nature, "good afternoon Miss Swan." Her French accent was unmistakable.

"Good afternoon," I returned. "I'm so sorry- what was your name?"

"Fifi," she said.

"Fifi," I repeated. "That's right. Good afternoon Fifi. I wondered if you knew-" I hesitated, not sure how to present the question without seeming not only incompetent at my own job, but too, overly curious into something that was most definitely not my business.

"If I knew what, Miss Swan?" she returned, holding the duster in both hands now and looking at me with warm ivy colored eyes and a thin, pretty face.

"If Ms. Cullen had been gone long?"

"Oh," she said, "I believe the Madam of the house stepped out a few hours ago now."

"Do you know where she went?" I pressed, my hunger shoving my careful address of the situation aside, "Do you know when she'll be back?"

"No," Fifi returned, her voice high-pitched, almost incredulous. "I'm sorry Miss Swan."

I shook my head. "No. I'm sorry. I only wondered-" I grasped blindly for a reason for my questions and settled on, "if she'd made it to her appointment on time."

That seemed to smooth the maid's ruffled feathers. "Ah, I see." She gave me a polite smile and then looked back to the table that she stood before. "I must return now to my chores, Miss Swan. If you'll excuse me."

"Of course," I said. I left her there and went into the office. I put the unopened parcel on the desk and then paced back and forth restlessly planning my next steps. I knew very well Miss Cullen's schedule, and knew that she had nothing planned for now or later today. I didn't have her private number. I had a number that would have, presumably, connected me to her husband if called. I didn't want to speak to him. Actually, just thinking about Emmett Cullen had me inexplicably annoyed. I sighed. I ran my shaking hands through my hair and said to myself, "Get ahold of yourself Isabella Swan."

In therapy, during my two month stint at suicide rehab, a psychologist had taught me a few methods to deal with heightened emotions. One that resonated with me more than the others was imagining that I was a snowflake gently floating through the sky, towards the frozen surface of a beautiful lake. In the exercise, when I collide with the surface, I dissolve away and with it, my anxiety and emotional turmoil goes too. But hovering above the wintery scene, I was reminded, once again of Levin's interaction with Kitty Vronsky. And so, obviously, I began to think about her and the book that lay now on the surface of the leather top desk. Then, as though I was being driven by some otherworldly force, I approached it and took it back in my hands. I wanted to open it, I wanted to prove to myself that it was a copy of Tolstoy's fourth novel and that she had gotten it because of our interaction. My fingers toyed with the paper of the package containing the mystery book and I was only moments from tearing it open and revealing to myself its contents.

But then my work phone rang.

I answered without even looking at the caller ID, startled, and stumbled through a greeting nervously. "H-hello?" I cleared my throat and added, "Bella Swan," in a last ditch effort to sound professional.

"Hello Bella Swan," came the responding deep voice. "How are you today?"

My heart began to thunder against the inside of my chest as I replied to Mr. Cullen's greeting. "I'm fine," I said, "thank you so much. And yourself?"

"Fine too." Then, "I didn't mean to catch you off guard," he said, his baritone lilting with amusement. "I was just calling to see whether or not you'd seen my wife." My heart did a somersault at her mention and I sat the book down quickly, as though he could see it.

"I saw Ms. Cullen this morning," I told him, "I've been running errands but I'm back at the house now and she isn't here."

"Of course she's not there," he laughed again. "That vixen. She's probably off somewhere spending several fortunes on more furniture we don't need. Tell you what- I am about to head into a meeting now, but I need to touch base with her. She's not answering my call but I have a funny feeling that she'd answer yours. Give her a ring for me, would you? Then text me if you get a hold of her. You have my work number. This is my private number. I'll send you hers. Hold on-" there was some tapping on his end and I imagined his large tan fingers typing in the sequence of numbers that was directly connected to Rosalia Cullen. "There you go." My phone buzzed against my ear with the incoming text. "I wouldn't normally ask for such a thing- heaven knows not from any of our previous PAs- but you seem more than capable of carrying on a conversation with her. Just don't let her dazzle you. She's got a way, my wife." He laughed again but cut it short. "Ah, I've got to get going. Text me, would you?"

"Yes," I said, plain and simple. "Okay."

The line was severed at that moment, but I stood with the phone to my head for longer than I needed to. I knew that the instant I hung up, I would have to call her and the thought of hearing her voice again had me dizzy. I sat down in the desk chair and closed my eyes. There was absolutely no reason to put off the call because truthfully I had nothing else to do. I'd already taken care of sending out communication to the venues Mr. Cullen had been scheduled to attend physically this week. I'd rescheduled those that needed it, and assured the others he'd attend virtually. That meant that for the rest of the day, I only had to wait. Once the maids were done, I'd make my rounds. And then I would be finished with my work shift.

I held my phone in my hand and looked down at Mr. Cullen's text. It said- Rose's personal cell- 1-512-191-4518. I immediately committed the number to memory, reciting it aloud enough times to sound like a crazy person. "15121914518,15121914518,15121914518…" I put my thumb to the number on the cellphone screen and held down on it until the menu popped up and I was given the option to call or text. I pressed call, put the phone back to my ear and held my breath.

It rang once and the sound rattled through me like a marble in a glass jar. It rang again, this time like a shrill bell in a silent library. It rang a third time like a gunshot in the middle of the night. And then she answered.

"Hello," came her decadent purr, "Rosalia Cullen."

"Hi," I said, my greeting giving off almost exactly the same energy as a deer standing in the headlights of an oncoming semi-truck.

Her response was a creamy, "Mmm," that I felt deep in my core. Then, "Isabella Swan. Hello." She gave me a moment, maybe to release my bated breath, and then she inquired, "Did my husband give you this number?"

"Yes," I said.

She laughed and I had to keep myself from groaning with arousal when I heard the sound. "I see," she said. "And did he ask you to text him after you'd gotten ahold of me?"

"Yes," I said again.

"You'll be a good girl for me and tell him that you didn't get ahold of me, won't you?"

"Yes," I said a third time. "Anything you want."

"Anything?" she repeated. "Where are you right now?"

"In your office."

"Mmm. Did you get my book?"

"Yes."

"Did you open it?"

"No." I licked my dry lips. "Of course not."

"But you wanted to, didn't you?" When I didn't respond right away she tsked. "That's not being a good girl, is it?"

"No," I said.

I heard the sound of the front door opening both over the phone and in person, far off down the hall. My heart began to beat so loudly I could have sworn that anyone in the same room as me could have heard it. I heard her heels and I rose from my seat and spun towards the door just as she came into view. She disconnected the call and put her phone into the pocket of the jean jacket she'd donned over her orange dress. In return, I all but tossed my own phone onto the surface of the leather desk.

"Hi," I said again, as starstruck as I had been before. The butterflies in my stomach were fluttering their wings hard enough that I thought, fleetingly, that they could have lifted me off my feet if they didn't stop.

"What did my husband assume I was doing?" she asked me, leaning her gorgeous blonde head against the door frame and gazing at me with a level of intensity in her eyes I couldn't ignore.

"He thought you were out buying furniture."

"Did he?" Her eyes slid down my body to my hands, which I held awkwardly at my sides. They were shaking again and I knew she could see that. "Did you have coffee again today Bella?"

I shook my head, adamantly. "No. I had tea. The man at the bookshop-"

"Mr. Wilder?"

"Yes. He gave me a cup of tea."

"I see." She drifted forward then, towards me, and before I had even thought to prepare, she had my hands again. "Caffeine isn't good for you Beautiful Girl," she cooed, stroking my palms with her thumbs. "You shake like a leaf."

"I don't think that's the caffeine," I mumbled, looking into her eyes now and feeling the heat that had begun in my cheeks start to spread all over my entire body.

"No? Do I make you nervous?"

I couldn't hide the whimper in my voice when I answered her honestly- "Yes."

She smiled. She let go of my hands and then leaned to the right and retrieved my phone for me. "Text my husband. Tell him you called me twice and I didn't answer either time."

"Okay," I said. I fumbled with the device, trying to remember how to get to the text message screen, and then after finally navigating there, forgetting how to compose a new message. I stood stock still and stared down at the illuminated screen, completely dismantled in her presence.

"Would you prefer if I did it for you?" she asked me.

"Please," I said.

She took the phone back and effortlessly took care of the deed which I'd been too dumbfounded to do. Then she reached around me and very carefully, slid the phone into my back pocket. Once again, my breath hitched in my throat.

"Breathe Darling," she whispered, now bringing her hand up to my face. She placed her index finger and middle finger to my jaw and allowed the smooth underside of her thumb to rest on my bottom lip. Very gently, she urged me to open my mouth, and then smiled when the action caused me to exhale brusquely. "Good girl. Breathe."

I inhaled slowly, my own hands now fighting valiantly to keep from reaching out and touching her. She began to trace my bottom lip with the tip of her thumb and I felt so lightheaded that I expected any minute to lose my footing.

"Do you want to know what I was actually doing?" she asked me, still petting with one hand, her other now on my hip, urging me a little closer to her. "Are you curious?"

"Yes," I said.

The edge of her mouth lifted again and she responded to me in the same dominant tone she'd had when she'd told me to text her husband. "I want full sentences from now on. You can reply affirmatively or negatively. But I want an accompanying statement. Let's practice that now, hmm?"

I nodded.

"Do you want to know what I was doing today when my husband assumed I was blowing money on home decor?"

"Yes," I said, my voice a far off murmur, "I want to know what you were doing today."

"Good girl," she praised. "I was clothes shopping."

"Oh."

Her honey irises flitted across my face and then settled in mine. "You're so adorable when you're like this," she purred, "so vulnerable."

"Mr. Wilder said I was Odette," I muttered, her dazzling presence reducing me to a rambling mess. "You know. Odette. The white swan from-"

"Swan Lake." Her fingers were playing with the hem of my sweater now. "An astute observation. He's an intelligent man, Mr. Wilder. Did he say anything else?"

"He told me that all the female PAs you've had in the past have been fired for, for-"

"Hitting on my husband?"

"Yes." I swallowed, and then remembered my new rule. "They were fired for hitting on your husband."

"It was disrespectful to me," she told me, both hands still petting, but now, the one on my hip, threatening to slip beneath the fabric of my shirt. "But I don't have to worry about you, do I?"

I shook my head. "No. You don't have to worry about me."

"You don't want him, do you?" She pulled gently at my bottom lip, letting her thumb slip a little further into my mouth so that it touched the wet inside of my lip. "When you respond, I want you to be very stern with me."

"No," I said, mustering up as much formality as I possibly could, "you don't have to worry about me hitting on your husband because I don't want him."

"Good girl," she purred. "Let me see your tongue." I whimpered and extended my tongue just until the tip of it collided with the cool tip of her finger. She smiled. "So obedient. So pink." She left her finger there and then said, softly, "Go ahead, Bella Swan, I'm giving you permission."

Lost in the moment, I wrapped my lips around her finger and sucked very softly. She mmm'ed again watching me. And then she took both of her hands away, and stepped back.

"Do you want to open the package?" she asked me, the same hunger I'd witnessed swimming in her eyes that first day now back with a vengeance. "Do you want to see the book you retrieved for me?"

"Yes," I said, "I do."

"I suspect you already know what it is?"

"Anna Karenina," I guessed, "A first edition?"

"Clever girl," Ms. Cullen returned, seductively. "Go ahead and see if you're right."

Initially I was worried that my nerves would cause me to fumble the task but as I prepared to tear open the paper, she came up behind me and put her hands on mine. The pressure of her touch refused to allow me to tremble. As a result, with steady hands, I pulled open the parcel and revealed the tome hidden inside.

It had a dusty purple cover with gold lettering. I couldn't read Russian, but the two words comprising the title resembled ones I was already used to- Анна Каренина. I gasped, touched the title and then allowed her to direct my hands to stroke the spine.

"Recite it to me again," she urged, her voice like a song composed directly into my ear. "Can you? Can you say it with my name included?"

I closed my eyes. I felt the book beneath my fingertips and her body, now pushing against mine from behind. If I had suddenly burst into flames, I would have been not at all surprised. "I stepped down," I recited, "trying not to look long at Ms. Cullen,"-

"No." She petted my knuckles and said to me, "My name. My first name."

"Rosalia."

"Yes. Start over."

I nodded. I licked my lips. "I stepped down, trying not to look long at Rosalia, as though she were the sun, but I saw Rosalia as one sees the sun. Without looking."

She did not respond verbally. Instead, she took the book and put it on the desk beside the torn packaging. Then, with her hands on my hips again, she spun me back around to face her. Only this time we were much closer. I could feel her cool breath as she exhaled slowly through her nose, and yes, I could smell her perfume. Mr. Cullen's words returned to me- Just don't let her dazzle you. She's got a way, my wife. I thought, to Hell with Mr. Cullen. I was prepared to let his wife do to me whatever she wanted.

Her honey colored eyes met my own and she held my gaze intently. The seconds following the recitation extended out infinitely until I was absolutely weak with possibility. And then, in a very soft voice she asked me, "Can I hold you?"

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