“How did you do that?”
“It’s called voice recognition software, mademoiselle.”
“It’s incredible. You spoke into the remote and the TV heard you.”
He laughs softly. “It’s very common technology, mademoiselle.” He picks up his chocolate and settles back against the sofa again. “Any introduction to the Marvel universe has to start withIron Man,” he declares with confidence.
I’m still perplexed, but I wrap my hands around my mug and settle in to watch the movie.
Two hours later when the credits roll, I am obsessed with Tony Stark and Pepper Potts and I’m eager to watch the second Iron Man. Then I’m reliably informed by Pierre that I need to watchCaptain Americaafter that, followed byThor.
“When can I get to the movie with the kickass sexy woman in the leather suit?”
“Ah, Natasha Romanoff,” he says with a knowing smile. “Black Widow.”
“Like the spider! When does she get a movie?”
“Patience, mademoiselle.Iron Man 2is next. We can watch it tomorrow after dinner if you would like.”
I’m filled with so much affection for him that I almost throw my arms around his shoulders and hug him fiercely, but as always my years of conditioning and the realization that I’ve shown toomuch emotion already stops me. Instead, I offer Pierre a polite yet heartfelt thank-you.
“It has been my pleasure, mademoiselle.”
Mine too.“I appreciate you letting me into your personal space, Pierre. I know you enjoy your time alone.”
He smiles. “I do, mademoiselle. And while this cannot be an everyday occurrence, it would be nice to watch a movie with you from time to time.”
“I would love that, Pierre.”
I know he usually watches TV until the early hours of the morning and I don’t want to encroach on any more of his time, so I wish him good-night. And then I head to bed and wonder what this warm fuzzy feeling is I’m experiencing. It’s completely different from how I feel whenever I spend time with Lincoln. Being with him is thrilling, and it usually leaves me breathless—filled with excitement and adrenaline. While time with Pierre leaves me peaceful and content. I think for the very first time in my life... maybe I’ve found myself a true friend.
Chapter 22
Lincoln
After I leave Leah at the safe house, I find a hotel, shower and sleep for twelve hours. I decide to drive back from Kentucky the next day, and the closer I get to home, the more anxious I get to see Imogen.
Pierre’s name flashes on the screen in my car and that simmering anxiety tangles itself into a knot in my chest. He rarely contacts me when I’m away and instinctively I know something must be wrong. I answer his call and immediately his voice fills the car.
“Imogen has hurt herself, sir.”
That knot of anxiety splinters out, wrapping itself around my heart.
“Hurt herself how?”
“She broke a glass and one of the shards must have cut her. But she’s bleeding profusely. I believe the wound needs stitches. I would try, but I’m not as steady handed as I once was.”
“It’s okay, Pierre,” I assure him. It’s not his lack of sight which makes him so ill-equipped for the job. He’s stitched me up many times since being blinded, but that was before his hands were destroyed by arthritis.
Panic grips me. He has no way of knowing how badly injured she is. Perhaps she’s downplaying it. Hoping to lose so much blood that I have no option but to take her to hospital—it’s a risky strategy for her to employ, but one I would no doubt try myself if I suspected it might work. It won’t. I have a skilled surgeon I could call upon if necessary. I contemplate calling him anyway, just in case he’s needed, but decide against it. Money buys a lot of silence, but I’d prefer as few people as possible to know of her existence. “I’m already on my way back. I’ll be there within the hour. Keep pressure on the wound and try to minimize the bleeding as much as you can.”
“Of course, sir.”
I run through the house so fast that my shoes slip on the polished tile floors. When I reach my study, I falter. Seeing her sitting on the chair, her hand wrapped in a blood-soaked washcloth, looking so pale and vulnerable... I am almost knocked off my feet by the wave of guilt I feel.
She’s staring at me, mouth gaping in shock, and that’s when I realize that I’m not wearing my mask. This is the first time she’s ever seen my face. I push down the rush of emotions that floods my chest, ignore the voice inside my head that tells me how repulsed she must be to have to look at my scars, and I drop to my knees in front of her.
“I have everything you need, already prepared, sir,” Pierre says.
