Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence 5)

‘Maybe we could come to some kind of…compromise.’

Pardon?

Screech! Pull the brakes. Halt the universe for a moment. Had I just heard correctly? Had Mr Rikkard Ambrose, Mr I’ll-grind-you-into-the-dust-before-I-shift-an-inch-from-my-conditions Ambrose just offered to compromise?

‘Did I fall off the cathedral, break my neck and go to heaven?’ I enquired.

To judge by the look on his face, he didn’t appreciate my attempt at humour. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Not that I’m aware of, Mr Linton. However, that can be arranged.’

‘Ah. I must be dreaming, then.’ Dropping all humour, all defences, everything that stood between the two of us, I slid my arms around him and pulled him close.

A compromise. A compromise! What does it that mean?

Should I dare hope it meant he wanted me more than he wanted to own me?

He hesitated for a moment—then roughly pulled me against him and held me so tight I almost couldn’t breathe. I didn’t complain.

‘And what a dream it is,’ he whispered. ‘What a dream.’

‘In a dream, we could be together forever.’ My grip on him tightened even more, as if I never wanted to let go. ‘Just imagine it…no society, no judgements, no laws, no stupid vows of obedience…just the two of us, able to do whatever the heck we want.’

His grip tightened, too. Now I really couldn’t breathe—but for the moment, I didn’t care. I’d always thought about starting a career as a Caribbean pearl diver. Didn’t they have to hold their breaths for over eight minutes?

‘Adequate.’

‘So…how do we make this dream reality?’

Loosening his grip, he took my chin in one hand and made me look up at him.

‘I’m master of my fate,’ he told me, and his cold, hard face had never looked as beautiful as in that moment. ‘Making dreams reality is what I do.’

‘I thought that was making massive amounts of money.’

He raised one eyebrow about half a millimetre. ‘As I said—making dreams reality is what I do.’

I narrowed my eyes. Suddenly, a very important question occurred to me. A question which, all things considered, I probably should have asked before now. ‘Which is more important to you—me or your money?’

He considered the matter for a moment. And another moment. And another.

Finally…

‘Is that a trick question?’

I stomped on his foot.

‘You…you…bloody son of a bachelor!’

‘Language, Miss Linton. Language.’

‘Just shut up and hold me.’

He did. And so we stood there, high above Paris, watching the sun set, safe in each other’s arms. And deep, deep inside, I didn’t need to hear the answer to my question, because I already knew with a hundred percent certainty which of the two was most important to Rikkard Ambrose.

Well…ninety-nine percent. But that was all right.

Soon, the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, and the cool blanket of night spread across Paris. Still—neither of us felt like returning home already and breaking the spell of the evening. So we went to the Luxembourg Gardens[23] and settled down in a quiet corner of the magnificent park. Spreading out a chequered blanket, we unpacked our dinner and tucked in. For entertainment, we had a little disagreement.

‘No,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face immovable, ‘it is not.’