Deceived - Part 2 Paris (13 page)

“What are you talking about Patrick? You sent me several text messages after the Hamptons. Are you telling me that you didn’t send me any text messages after the Hamptons? Then who...?”

“Yea, who do you think? It could only have been Anna. God, she is such a psycho bitch. She stole my phone. I’m sure of it. It all makes sense now.”

I could feel the anger surfacing in his voice as he continued. “She probably took it from my jacket that night up in the library when you walked in. Later she texted you messages, that looked like they came from me, trying to make you call me. When you finally called, she answered and threw the last punch.” He flung his hands up in the air, pacing around the room, boiling with anger.

I hung my head and pursed my lips, allowing the silence to settle the negative energy in the air. It took a while for all of this new information to sink into my skull, but slowly and gently, the animosity I had felt towards Patrick softened and left my heart. If what he had described was true, it changed everything. And it had to be true... I mean, the Baroness would certainly be capable of conducting a deception like that. She had shown numerous times that she would do anything to win. It’s like a game to her and we were nothing but pawns that can be disposed of when needed. I felt like a heel; what an idiot I had been. How could I not have seen such a move coming from her? As Patrick came back to the chair next to my bed, I saw him in a new light.

“Patrick, I’m sorry, I thought the worst of you..I..I..” I moved closer to the edge of the bed near him and he took my small hand into his strong fingers. Looking into my eyes he spoke in a soft low voice, “Chloe, I have been miserable without you. Ever since I met you...ever since the first day I saw you in the office, I was mesmerized. You are the most beautiful and magnificent woman and I was so lost until I found you. Your light brought me back again and when you are near, the room lights up like the sky. I’ve never felt this way before and when you left me in the Hamptons, I feared that you may never forgive me. I thought maybe I should just leave you alone for a while, give you some breathing room and you would calm down. But when I saw your letter of resignation on my desk. I couldn’t believe it. I was crushed. I contacted Ryan and put the bug in his ear to hire you for his new gallery in Paris. That way I would be guaranteed that you would be in good hands until you...well...maybe until you could give me another chance. But I never imagined something horrible would happen to you like... like this,” he cocked his head to one side and lightly touched my swollen cheek. Tears were welling up in my eyes and a few dainty drops trailed down, dividing around his fingers.  

He lifted my hand, kissing the backs of my fingertips with his warm lips and my heart melted. He closed his eyes when he whispered, “Chloe, I’m so sorry all of this happened to you. I should never have involved you in the business with the Baroness.” He moved out of the chair, and sitting on the edge of the bed, he put his arms around me. I laid my head on his firm chest and he gently caressed my hair. With my head buried in his chest, I whispered in a hoarse voice, “I forgive you Patrick,” and mumbled in an almost inaudible voice, “I forgive everything, my love.”

He took my chin in his hand and tipped my face up, his gaze was soft as a caress and my heart was filled with bliss. I forgot all about my bruised head and cheek; all I wanted was to live in this moment forever.

He stroked my face, pushing strands of hair back behind my ear and he started a trail of chiffon kisses, delicate and gentle, first on the forehead, then on the temple and finally he kissed me on the lips, slowly, sensually, pulling my lips into his mouth, lingering to feel the tenderness of mine before drawing back.

He stood up and lifted my body, placing me on the bed. Gentle fingers removed my pajamas, laying bare my breasts and his supple lips kissed my stomach, every nerve of which softly fluttered under his touch. He drew back off the bed, hovering over me to remove his clothes and I gazed up at him, reveling in watching his actions. He looked mystical, magical, enshrouded by an ethereal glow. Looking over at my face, he and all his masculinity, with his taut chest, his steel blue eyes, he turned and breathed a sigh, as if endowed with deep satisfaction.

He lowered himself onto the bed next to me, holding my gaze, as I shuddered under his firm touch on my breast. I arched, surrendering up my nipples, aching for that raking pass of his hand to send a familiar tingle, like summer lightning to my sweet spot.

I shoved my hands in his hair, soft, brown, wavy and filled my nostrils with his scent in one long deep inhalation. Oh, the magnificence of his sublime nature.

Thoughts of happiness and joy poured over my soul and as if reading my mind his hand found my bare mound caressing my skin. I moaned feeling my tightening muscles straining for release. A hard sensation pressed against my thigh, as his straining cock rose in thunderous momentum.

“Chloe, I don’t want to rush you. I’ll stop if you’re not ready. I need to feel you, I need to be with you…in you,” his head down, whispering into my chest.

I knew Patrick didn’t just want sex. He wanted to make love. I guided his body with my hands as a response to his question, moving him on top of me and with desire rumbling in his throat, like distant summer thunder, he thrust his firmness into my wet folds. Still holding my hips as if they were made of glass, he stroked me, gently, lovingly like waves of the ocean, which rose and fell, delicately lashing the sands. Breathless echoes of ecstasy reverberated our passion for each other, as the tugging on my clit corkscrewed my emotions like a tornado. I was consumed by him, by our lovemaking, by the sum of our passion for each other.

My release rolled in like clouds heavy with their duty, unleashed by his final strokes, quivering, the deluge broke, pelting down like razor hot drops of rain.

Finding his truth in me, he cried out my name as he fulfilled himself, deep inside of me and we both fell into a light sleep, holding each other into the afternoon.

I had been dreaming of floating in a brightly colored hot air balloon, when I was rattled out of my sleep by a heavy fist pounding on the door. It was the police and they had come to take a statement about the incident of the previous night.  

“Yea. Hold on,” Patrick bellowed out and we both scrambled frantically to throw on some clothes. Patrick let the two of them in, making the necessary introductions.

“This is Chloe Swanson. She wants to press charges against her assailant, Francisco Parada,” he said firmly.

The officers turned in my direction, with an inquisitive eye.

“Yes,” I nodded. “That’s correct.”

“Could you tell us what happened Mademoiselle?” The officer with the mustache inquired.

“Well, I had been going out with Francisco...Francisco Parada for a few weeks. We went to a local bar where his friend was playing in the band. After a few drinks he started getting aggressive, you know yelling and calling me names. He pulled me out of the bar into the alley. And before I knew it, he threw me against a wall and I hit my head.” I nervously glanced at Patrick for support. He was my rock. “Then he hit me in the face, right here on the cheek.” I pointed to my wound. “And if it wasn't for Patrick, I don’t know what would have happened.” I was wringing my hands anxiously and sensing my tension, Patrick pulled up a chair for me to sit in, while the officer with the mustache scribbled frantically on his notepad.

“Yea,” Patrick chimed in. “When I saw that Chloe was in trouble, I grabbed the mother-fucking scumbag and pulled him off of her. He was on top of her, so I threw him against the wall. That’s when he probably realized he should beat it out of there and the coward ran.” Patrick’s eyes were blazing with rage. “I brought her here to the hotel room and a doctor came and examined her. She would like to press charges for assault.” Patrick came over and stood behind me in the chair, resting his hands on my shoulders.

“Yes, we have the doctor’s report and we can see there is some trauma to the face, but are you sure you want to press charges? You had a relationship with this man and...” His pen halted its scribbling in a pregnant pause, waiting for my response. Patrick stepped forward from behind the chair and shot me a glance like, “
Oh, Really? Did he just say that?
” and gave me a nod, like, “
Go ahead Chloe. Go ballistic on his ass.
”

”What does that have to do with this? He threw my head into the fucking wall.” I cried in disbelief. “
And
he punched me in my face.” What was it going to take for these two buffoons to understand? I huffed and turned away.

“She wants to press charges. Obviously you can see that something horrific happened to her,” Patrick said pointing to my red cheek. “You don’t look like that without serious trauma. How dare you question her motives?” Patrick steamed at him all up in his face, his own beet red veins bulging on his forehead. “This guy is going to do the same again and again to other women, if you don’t stop him now. You better get on this case now, buddy.”

I stood up, laying a hand on Patrick’s sleeve, hoping to calm him down. Officer Mustache, was not amused and shrunk back, not entirely sure of what Patrick might do.

“Well, well, easy now, Monsieur.  We just want to make sure we have all the facts. No problem. We will find him and charge him.” He put his notepad away and nodded to his partner, then directed his attention back to Patrick, “When are you planning on leaving the country? It might take a few weeks and we would need the statement in writing before you leave.”

“We don’t know yet.” He glanced at me as if to assess when I might feel well enough to fly. “Even if we have to come back for a trial we will do that. We want this guy put away,” Patrick affirmed. “We will come down to the station tomorrow if that’s what you need.”

“Oh, no, Monsieur Collins. This is fine. This will be the official statement.” I had the feeling that Officer Mustache didn’t relish the thought of confronting the wrath of Patrick a second time. He and his partner began drifting toward the door. “We appreciate your statement and will make sure this perpetrator doesn’t hurt other young ladies.” We all shook hands and Patrick walked them to the door, practically growling under his breath, not entirely satisfied with their conduct.

As the two officers exited, they practically plowed into Ryan in the hallway, as he was about to knock when the door swung open. Patrick ushered him in and he crushed me in a big bear hug, a small bouquet of fresh summer flowers clutched in his hand, bobbed against the back of my sore head.

“Hey, hey, take it easy,” I said, as I gingerly pulled back to avoid putting undue pressure on my bruises.

“Oooo, Chloe,” he winced, sucking air in between his teeth when he saw my face. “That’s quite a shiner you got there. Gawd, I’m sorry about all this,” he frowned and shook his head. “Francisco is a douchebag and any man who would stoop so low as to hit a woman is a sorrowful coward in my book.”

“I’m sorry Ryan, if I caused any problems for your gallery. I really didn’t mean to hurt your business and I feel like a heel bailing on you like this.”

“No worries, girlie. I don’t want Francisco's type giving my gallery a bad reputation anyway. It would have been a matter of time and something would have happened, even if it wasn’t this. It’s for the best that he showed his true colors sooner than later. Just wish it hadn’t been you on the receiving end. Good riddance to that asshole.”

He profusely assured both Patrick and I that we needn't worry about Francisco’s future at the gallery. He was completely on my side, just like he promised he would be.  

The angle of the midday sun shifted across the wall to a late afternoon slant as we recounted the past few weeks, relaxing around the small hotel room table. Ryan updated Patrick with all the details of the gallery opening and soon the conversation drifted to recollections of their college days together, each one trying to outdo the other with embarrassing stories. As the door clicked shut, Patrick turned to me.

“Chloe, I know it’s been a long day, but let’s go for a nice dinner and relax. Also, I have a little surprise for you, that is if you are feeling up to it.” He stepped in front of me, gently holding both of my hands, his gaze searching my eyes for confirmation that I was feeling well enough for a fun night out. “I got us front row tickets to the Moulin Rouge show if you like that kind of thing.”

“Oo-la-la.” I raised my eyebrows in recognition of the world’s birthplace of burlesque and visions of can-can dancers in brightly ruffled skirts lit up my eyes. Fifteen years of being a “Betty Hill” dancer” (tap, ballet and jazz) back in Iowa, culminated my senior year of high school, with all of us girls performing a can-can finale for my last dance recital. I practically squealed with delight as I rose up on my tippy toes.