Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“I’m sure. But you have to think of yourself, Gilbert.”
He gave a subtle shake of his head. “I would be miserable working for someone else besides him. With my other employers, there wasn’t the same level of satisfaction.”
“Are you ever…scared? You know, because of what he does?”
He shook his head again. “Fender is the most dangerous man in France. That also makes him the safest.”
Whenever I looked out my bedroom windows, I could see the armed men near the gate, ready for the unexpected. At first, it was daunting, but I was getting more used to it now. Just as I got used to the faceless guards at the camp.
“Here’s the basics. That way, you can at least greet people Fender introduces you to.” He handed me the notebook. I read through the list, trying to pronounce each one, but I’d never practiced French.
“Americans butcher the French language.” He released an annoyed sigh and helped me with each syllable, the pronunciation of each word. It was hard to look at a letter I’ve stared at my entire life but say it differently.
Together in front of the fire, we practiced.
When I grasped it as well as I could, he took the notebook back. “And what does Fender say to you?” He grabbed his pen so he could write it out.
“Um…” I tried to remember. When he spoke French to me, it was difficult to focus on the actual words because everything else drew my attention, like the look in his eyes, the deepness of his voice, what he was doing to my body with his. “Tu es mon… Something like that.”
He wrote it down in his notebook. “You’re mine.”
The flush crept into my cheeks when I pictured Fender saying that to me, rattling the headboard as he proved that physically.
Gilbert had no reaction, keeping his feelings held inside like an uncorked bottle.
“Tu es… moi… à moi… I’m not sure. He said the words a couple times.”
“Mine.” He wrote it down.
“Oh…” So, everything he said was romantic. It wasn’t dirty talk like I assumed. “Tu es vra… magnifico? I’m sorry, I’m probably not even close on that one.”
Gilbert only needed a couple seconds to figure it out. His pen went to the page, and he wrote it out. “Tu es vraiment magnifique. You’re fucking beautiful.”
Like a movie in my head, I could picture him saying that to me, his hand around my throat, one arm behind my knee. The look in his eyes matched his words. His affection matched his aggression.
“I want you to memorize this and say it to him.” Gilbert added another line to the notebook. “Mon homme m’a manqué. Emmène-moi au lit. When he comes home, that should be the first thing you say to him.”
“What does it mean?”
“Roughly translated, it means, ‘I missed my man, and now take me to bed.’”
Yeah, he would love it if I said that.
He closed the notebook and set it on the coffee table. “If my instruction isn’t enough, we can have a professional come to the house. While English is a second language to most of the French, you will integrate into Parisian society much easier if you’re fluent. Just because we speak English doesn’t mean we want to. French is a much more beautiful language. You’ll see.”
A week had come and gone, and Fender didn’t return.
I had no idea when he would.
I put on a purple long-sleeved dress from Louis Vuitton with some matching pumps, along with a few pieces of jewelry Gilbert had placed in my room. When he first showed me the jewelry box, I didn’t touch anything because I’d never seen jewels like that in my entire life. Now, I put them on every day, always wearing something new because he had such a variety.
I made my way downstairs and found Gilbert in the main living room, carefully dusting a teapot with a soft brush, like it was a fossil found in the desert that needed to be handled with care. “Gilbert?”
He finished what he was doing then carefully placed the lid on top before he rose to his feet, in his tuxedo with his shoes as shiny as the paint job on a brand-new car. “Is there something I can get you, Melanie?” He removed the white gloves he used to handle the tea set as he approached me.
“Is that tea set really old or something?”
He halted in front of me, giving me that look that clearly asked, “Did she just really say that?” After he recovered from his shock, he finished with his gloves and held them at his sides along with the brush. “Yes…very old. This estate has been restored as minimally as possible to protect its history. A lot of the items in the house date back to the sixteen and seventeen hundreds, when Parisian society was bustling with parties and gatherings.”