They’d be profoundly disappointed.
I do fear their anger, too, but apparently not as much as disappointing them. The anger would pass. They’d forgive me because they love me more than anything in the world. Even my horrible, irreparable act of six years ago didn’t change that.Their disappointment, though?I don’t know if I could handle that.
And that’s why, instead of meeting Gaby for a long lunch in Annecy, like I told Mom, I’m here. Gaby will give me an alibi. She said it’s the least she can do to make up for her neglect of me over the past few months.
I turn on the overhead light and pad over to the bed. If the injured man is still here, and if he’s able to talk, I’ll ask him who he is. He’s here, asleep or unconscious, just like last time. I decide I’ll call him Ginger until he tells me his name.
He looks less sickly, though. With a jolt of shock, I realize that he’s handsome. All I could recall from my last visit was his bandages, his size, and that delirious blue gaze. But now that I’m taking a good look at him…
Beneath the blankets, it’s impossible to miss the contours of his tall, powerfully built body. I notice a sling cradling his left arm, but not the right one. The blankets cover his legs and midriff. Both his feet are propped to be above the level of the heart, like last time. I’m assuming both of his legs are broken.
His bandaged torso forms a mouthwatering V, like a pro swimmer.
My fiancé’s body shape is a V, too… only inverted.Hee-hee-hee!
Feeling guilty for allowing myself such an unflattering comparison of Ginger’s and Philippe’s body shapes, I shift my gaze to Ginger’s strong neck, and then to his face.
His bandaged forehead, overgrown beard, dark circles, and sunken cheeks no longer obscure his chiseled features. What a well-cut mouth he has! And those eyebrows, darker than his hair, but still reddish, and arched just so! And the tiny lines around his eyes, and the gray hairs peppering his temples and beard—
Cut it out, Stella! What is wrong with you?
Shame washes over me. I’m an engaged woman. And not to some random guy. Philippe is my childhood friend, a beautiful soul who loves me enough to overlook my crime, which he knows about. He also knows I’m not sexually attracted to him. Infinitely patient, he says we have all the time in the world. We’ll work on the “romance” side of things after we’re married. And, regardless of the outcome of those efforts, our union will be about so much more than sex! He claims that it’s vastly overrated, anyway.
So, I’m here to ask Ginger questions, not to leer at him.
Should I try to wake him up?
I inch closer and kneel, careful not to startle him. “Monsieur? Can you hear me?”
He stirs slightly and his eyes flick open, like last time. I hold my breath as he slowly shifts his azure gaze to me.
“Who are you?” he asks in a low, raspy voice. “You came here already, yes?”
“A week ago.”
His lip curls up. “I thought I was dying, and you were an angel.”
“Definitely not an angel.”
“What’s your name?” he asks. His accent could be Swiss.
“Stella.”
“And your last name?”
Should I share it, not knowing who he is?“Who are you?”
“My name is Darrel Vlovsky. I am a UK national.”
“There’s zero English accent in your French.”
“I grew up in Switzerland.” He pauses. “What’s the date? Where are we? Who is the couple who found me and brought me here, and the other couple who came for the ritual yesterday?”
I stare at him.What other couple? What ritual? Has he been hallucinating?“You were probably delirious,” I say.
“I wasn’t.” He lifts his arm a little, wincing, and points to the cubicle in the other corner. “There’s a sink in there.”
“O-o-kay.”
