Broken Dove
Page 14
I knew.
She was a prostitute and she was here for Apollo.
She’d also been here before and the activities they’d engaged in, she’d liked (a woman didn’t get wistful for nothing).
And they’d done them in this room.
I shook my head and moved further into the room, aiming my feet toward the dresser which had the decanter now filled with fresh wine. I pulled out the heavy crystal stopper and poured myself a heavier dose.
I stoppered the decanter, lifted the wine to my lips and took a sip (Valentine was right, Fleuridian wine really was superb), staring unseeing at the hydrangea blooms.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Apollo was a man. He’d have to get himself some.
But a prostitute?
And he’d put me in the bed he’d had her in?
“Good God,” I breathed, shaking my head and moving to the dressing table across the room.
I sat on the stool and stared at my reflection.
God had given me much even if he’d taken more away. But one of the few bounties that was mine to keep was my hair. It was auburn, had soft curls, some of them ringlets. It wasn’t kinky or coarse, it was thick but silky.
I’d always loved my hair.
God had also given me lovely skin, only a sprinkling of freckles across my nose that Pol wasn’t very fond of and asked (okay, demanded) I cover them up with foundation before we went out.
I did so he wouldn’t get angry, but I’d always thought they were cute.
So had my dad. He’d thought they were adorable. It was one of the few things he liked about me, or about anyone or, truth be told, anything.
What he hadn’t thought was adorable was me hooking up with a drug dealer.
He didn’t think that was adorable at all.
Mom either. Then again, Mom thought whatever Dad thought seeing as doing that was a lot less hassle.
I closed my eyes, shook my head, took a deep breath and opened them, taking another sip of wine.
I had nice enough features, I thought. I straight, slim nose. A decent jawline. Defined cheekbones. Dark brown eyes that had a lovely shape.
I was tall-ish, standing at five eight. I had ass. I had br**sts. They weren’t well-above average but you couldn’t miss that they existed. I also had a slim waist, so my booty and br**sts both were more pronounced.
My second favorite feature was my legs. I had good legs.
Not that you could see them in the clothes of this world, but still.
I didn’t look anything like the lush beauty who came to call for Apollo.
In other words, he didn’t f**k anyone who might remind him of his Ilsa.
I got that. I so did.
But…a prostitute?
Evidence was suggesting the Apollo of this world wasn’t all that hot either.
In fact, evidence was suggesting Apollo of this world was a self-indulgent jerk.
And I knew all about that.
Boy did I.
So I stared at myself, coming out of my pity party and beginning to think this was good.
This place was amazing, the clothes were great, the food was fabulous, the people seemed friendly. Sure, there wasn’t electricity or cars or movie theaters, but if I got my head out of my ass, I might find it was fun to explore a world like this.
Further, I was safe from Pol. He’d never get to me here.
And Apollo wanted nothing to do with me.
Eleven years ago, at twenty-two years old, working in an exclusive department store, I’d met Pol and made mistake after mistake after mistake that destroyed my life. I’d been seduced by his good looks, the wads of cash always in his pockets, his easy smile and his taking me on the town in his Corvette (which he traded up to a Porsche, then up to a Maserati and finally an Aston Martin—things were always good in the drug trade).
I’d wanted that life and I’d got it (minus the drug trade part, of course). I thought, it coming with all the outward lusciousness that was Pol, I’d have everything I ever wanted. A handsome, wealthy, powerful man and the life he could give me.
And I got nothing.
But now I had a second chance. A second chance to make a life all my own. It came in a bizarre way that I would never in my wildest dreams imagine would be real.
But I had it.
“So I’m going to take it,” I vowed to my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes stared back and me and they were determined.
And hopeful.
I liked that look on me. I hadn’t seen it in so long, I wasn’t certain I’d ever seen it.
But now I was seeing it.
So I was going to go for it.
Chapter Five
Making Me Feel Free
I’d lost control of the horse under me. He was pounding through the wildflowers behind the house, his movements jarring my ribs and that hurt.
But I wasn’t focusing on that. I figured he knew what he was doing. He was just taking me along for the ride.
No, I was focusing on the wind in my hair, the sun shining on my skin and the beauty all around me.
Pierre, who was teaching me how to ride, was running after us, shouting in French. But his voice was fading away as the horse and I galloped through the flowers.
It was two days after the prostitute had come to call.
Two glorious days.
And I was on a horse because it occurred to me that, seeing as they didn’t have cars here and I didn’t know how to ride, I should learn. So I’d spoken (okay, gestured) to the maids.
With a lot of smiles and laughter at my machinations, I finally got the message across and had been introduced to Pierre. I didn’t know what he did at the house but it didn’t matter. While I smiled and laughed at his gesticulations, he agreed to teach me how to ride. But I only understood this when he led me to the stables, showed me how to saddle a horse and then he showed me how to get on. It continued from there.
I also knew all the maids’ names. I further knew how to say horse in French (cheval). I’d remembered bonjour and merci, which I started using (making the staff smile happily and nod enthusiastically) and I learned bonne nuit. Sure, it wasn’t much, but it was something.
Further, I’d taken a walk down the wildflower flanked lane, almost to the church, which was a lot further than it looked so I’d stopped and turned back. Nevertheless, if the view was something from my balcony, it was much better up close.
This meant I had slippers that fit me (six pairs and they were all awesome and fit like they were made for me—because they were!). I also had dresses that fit me (and they were even more amazing than the ones I’d been wearing).
And I’d taken the time to thoroughly peruse the shelves in the library. When I did, I found several books in English. Two were all poetry (which I’d tried but it wasn’t my gig). One was a gothic drama (which I was reading and it was pretty good).
She was a prostitute and she was here for Apollo.
She’d also been here before and the activities they’d engaged in, she’d liked (a woman didn’t get wistful for nothing).
And they’d done them in this room.
I shook my head and moved further into the room, aiming my feet toward the dresser which had the decanter now filled with fresh wine. I pulled out the heavy crystal stopper and poured myself a heavier dose.
I stoppered the decanter, lifted the wine to my lips and took a sip (Valentine was right, Fleuridian wine really was superb), staring unseeing at the hydrangea blooms.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Apollo was a man. He’d have to get himself some.
But a prostitute?
And he’d put me in the bed he’d had her in?
“Good God,” I breathed, shaking my head and moving to the dressing table across the room.
I sat on the stool and stared at my reflection.
God had given me much even if he’d taken more away. But one of the few bounties that was mine to keep was my hair. It was auburn, had soft curls, some of them ringlets. It wasn’t kinky or coarse, it was thick but silky.
I’d always loved my hair.
God had also given me lovely skin, only a sprinkling of freckles across my nose that Pol wasn’t very fond of and asked (okay, demanded) I cover them up with foundation before we went out.
I did so he wouldn’t get angry, but I’d always thought they were cute.
So had my dad. He’d thought they were adorable. It was one of the few things he liked about me, or about anyone or, truth be told, anything.
What he hadn’t thought was adorable was me hooking up with a drug dealer.
He didn’t think that was adorable at all.
Mom either. Then again, Mom thought whatever Dad thought seeing as doing that was a lot less hassle.
I closed my eyes, shook my head, took a deep breath and opened them, taking another sip of wine.
I had nice enough features, I thought. I straight, slim nose. A decent jawline. Defined cheekbones. Dark brown eyes that had a lovely shape.
I was tall-ish, standing at five eight. I had ass. I had br**sts. They weren’t well-above average but you couldn’t miss that they existed. I also had a slim waist, so my booty and br**sts both were more pronounced.
My second favorite feature was my legs. I had good legs.
Not that you could see them in the clothes of this world, but still.
I didn’t look anything like the lush beauty who came to call for Apollo.
In other words, he didn’t f**k anyone who might remind him of his Ilsa.
I got that. I so did.
But…a prostitute?
Evidence was suggesting the Apollo of this world wasn’t all that hot either.
In fact, evidence was suggesting Apollo of this world was a self-indulgent jerk.
And I knew all about that.
Boy did I.
So I stared at myself, coming out of my pity party and beginning to think this was good.
This place was amazing, the clothes were great, the food was fabulous, the people seemed friendly. Sure, there wasn’t electricity or cars or movie theaters, but if I got my head out of my ass, I might find it was fun to explore a world like this.
Further, I was safe from Pol. He’d never get to me here.
And Apollo wanted nothing to do with me.
Eleven years ago, at twenty-two years old, working in an exclusive department store, I’d met Pol and made mistake after mistake after mistake that destroyed my life. I’d been seduced by his good looks, the wads of cash always in his pockets, his easy smile and his taking me on the town in his Corvette (which he traded up to a Porsche, then up to a Maserati and finally an Aston Martin—things were always good in the drug trade).
I’d wanted that life and I’d got it (minus the drug trade part, of course). I thought, it coming with all the outward lusciousness that was Pol, I’d have everything I ever wanted. A handsome, wealthy, powerful man and the life he could give me.
And I got nothing.
But now I had a second chance. A second chance to make a life all my own. It came in a bizarre way that I would never in my wildest dreams imagine would be real.
But I had it.
“So I’m going to take it,” I vowed to my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes stared back and me and they were determined.
And hopeful.
I liked that look on me. I hadn’t seen it in so long, I wasn’t certain I’d ever seen it.
But now I was seeing it.
So I was going to go for it.
Chapter Five
Making Me Feel Free
I’d lost control of the horse under me. He was pounding through the wildflowers behind the house, his movements jarring my ribs and that hurt.
But I wasn’t focusing on that. I figured he knew what he was doing. He was just taking me along for the ride.
No, I was focusing on the wind in my hair, the sun shining on my skin and the beauty all around me.
Pierre, who was teaching me how to ride, was running after us, shouting in French. But his voice was fading away as the horse and I galloped through the flowers.
It was two days after the prostitute had come to call.
Two glorious days.
And I was on a horse because it occurred to me that, seeing as they didn’t have cars here and I didn’t know how to ride, I should learn. So I’d spoken (okay, gestured) to the maids.
With a lot of smiles and laughter at my machinations, I finally got the message across and had been introduced to Pierre. I didn’t know what he did at the house but it didn’t matter. While I smiled and laughed at his gesticulations, he agreed to teach me how to ride. But I only understood this when he led me to the stables, showed me how to saddle a horse and then he showed me how to get on. It continued from there.
I also knew all the maids’ names. I further knew how to say horse in French (cheval). I’d remembered bonjour and merci, which I started using (making the staff smile happily and nod enthusiastically) and I learned bonne nuit. Sure, it wasn’t much, but it was something.
Further, I’d taken a walk down the wildflower flanked lane, almost to the church, which was a lot further than it looked so I’d stopped and turned back. Nevertheless, if the view was something from my balcony, it was much better up close.
This meant I had slippers that fit me (six pairs and they were all awesome and fit like they were made for me—because they were!). I also had dresses that fit me (and they were even more amazing than the ones I’d been wearing).
And I’d taken the time to thoroughly peruse the shelves in the library. When I did, I found several books in English. Two were all poetry (which I’d tried but it wasn’t my gig). One was a gothic drama (which I was reading and it was pretty good).
