Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Her gaze flickers over me. “No bag for the lady?”
From her red Balenciaga number, it’s obvious my antique lace blouse and mermaid skirt don’t fit here, but I made them, and I love them.
Maxime lays a hand on my shoulder. “No bag.”
His palm burns through the thin silk lining of the blouse. When the hostess turns away, I shake his touch off.
After putting Maxime’s jacket in the cloakroom, she leads us down a red carpet to a veranda overlooking a fishpond that stretches the whole length of the lawn. A fountain with a sea snake spouting water from a forked tongue stands in the middle. Lilies drift on the water. It reminds me of an illustration of The Frog Prince in a book I owned, only this is no fairytale. I’ve stepped right into a nightmare.
Not having a choice, I sit down in the chair Maxime pulls out for me. A waiter drapes a linen napkin over my lap and hands me a menu. It’s all very pretty and fancy, but I hate the place. We’ve entered a different world where unfamiliar rules and manners apply, a world where someone takes your jacket and judges you for the price tag on your clothes. Several other diners in eveningwear cast curious glances my way. With his European style, Maxime fits right in. I must stand out like the underprivileged kid in the candy store.
When Maxime opens his menu, I do the same, not because I’m eager to participate in this charade, but to block out his hateful face behind the big leather folder. There are no prices on mine. Going through the list of entrées and main courses, I understand why Maxime suggested ordering for me. It wasn’t so much a gesture of control than saving me the embarrassment of admitting I understand nothing. The dishes all have foreign names. I’m guessing they’re French. There’s nothing I recognize.
The waiter returns with appetizers. “Sea urchin on Melba toast with truffle oil.”
I stare at the disc of bread with a dollop of red cream, a sprig of chive, and three dots of oil on the side.
“Do you like urchin?” Maxime asks.
“I don’t know.” Isn’t it’s obvious I can’t afford food like this? “I’ve never had it.”
“Some people love it. Others hate it. Go ahead. Try it.”
I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I don’t have an appetite. Even if I were starving, which technically I am, I would’ve declined on principle. I’m not selling my soul to the devil for a meal.
I push the plate away. “No, thanks.”
His eyes crinkle in the corners, but the set of his mouth is hard. “I’ll feed you if you prefer.” He pronounces the words carefully in his accent, making sure I understand. “On my lap.”
He’ll do it. I have no doubt. He’s callously uncaring about how people are looking at us, or rather at me. Defeated, I give him a cutting look as I take the morsel between two fingers and place it in my mouth. It’s salty and smoky with a strong but not off-putting iodine aftertaste.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I cross my arms. “No.”
“I’ll order you something more ordinary, then.”
The insult is payback for my ungrateful and bad-mannered reply, but I couldn’t care less. Yes, I’m poor. Yes, I’m not used to much, certainly not urchin, and caviar, and whatever else they serve here, but at least I’m not a criminal who breaks into people’s homes and kidnaps them.
Picking up the knife and fork on the far outside of his plate, Maxime scoops up the bite and brings it to his lips. I want to crawl under the table for demonstrating just how uneducated I am by eating with my hands. It’s not that I care what he or the people around us think. I just hate giving them the pleasure of being right about me.
The waiter returns with a bottle of wine and pours us each a glass, after which he takes our order. Maxime has no problem pronouncing the names of the dishes.
When the waiter is gone, I decide to go for a blunt approach. I already know my kidnapper’s name. Knowing less or more about him won’t make a difference in my fate.
“Are you French?” I ask.
His lips quirk in one corner. “What gave me away?”
“Your accent.”
“It was a rhetorical question, Zoe. It’s called humor.”
Some of the fear makes place for anger. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I wasn’t patronizing you.” His smile grows into a full, mocking curve. “I was just pointing out the obvious.”
I hate him. He did this on purpose, making me feel stupid for asking. Not wanting to talk to him anymore, I turn my head away.
“Why so angry, my little Zoe? Is it because I didn’t fall for your transparent way of fishing for information about me?”
I look back at him. “I’m not your little Zoe, and actually, I brought it up because your accent is rather unpleasant on the ear.”