A lilting, amused voice broke through my unraveling thoughts. “How wonderful it is to see you two getting along so well.”
As if zapped by a prod, we both snapped straight and turned as one toward the voice.
Looking like a dark-haired, witchy Endora, Amalie stood in the open doorway with a small curl of a smile on her thin hot-pink lips. “Do stop panting all over our guest, Titou.”
When he growled low in his throat, she smiled wider. “My, but you are stirred up. Perhaps you both could use a little cooling off in the pool.”
With that, she twirled around and sauntered away, leaving us to exchange one more long unsettled look before Lucian stalked off. As soon as he was gone, my shoulders sagged, and I took a shaky breath. The man was too potent. And Amalie was right; I definitely needed a long swim to cool off.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lucian
What did they say about the best-laid plans? I’d blown my plan to keep away from Emma all to hell. Worse, Mamie had caught us . . . discussing . . . and thought she knew something that she really didn’t. She’d be relentless now.
I gathered my dough and kneaded it, pushing through with the balls of my hands, then gathering the cool, springing mass back with my fingers, over and over. It was hypnotic. Necessary.
Back when hockey was my life, I’d taken my frustrations out on the ice. Even if it had been only to lace up my skates and get out there on my own. I could spend hours on the ice, just flying.
Unable to help myself, I closed my eyes and remembered. I could almost feel the frosty air on my face, the subtle glide of my skates. I could nearly hear the clap of my stick on the ice, the way it felt to hit the puck.
My chest clenched. Hard.
Fuck.
Opening my eyes, I went back to kneading, picking up the dough to slap it hard onto the counter. I’d chosen a nice sourdough sandwich bread to make, knowing the dough would require a lot of kneading to get the gluten going.
This was my therapy now. Baking and, to a lesser extent, cooking. The precision and concentration needed to create something truly exceptional crowded my brain and didn’t leave room for all the other dark and twisted thoughts. For a while, at least.
But I couldn’t chase Emma Maron out of my head. Which was a problem. It was my own fault for continuing to engage with her. But what was I supposed to do when I walked into my temporary home and found a fairy princess gazing around with wide blue eyes? I had to get her out of my space. I thought she’d scare easily and run.
Instead she’d called my bluff and left me hard and aching for her. She’d wanted to know if it mattered who saw me naked. As if there was any doubt.
I’d caught sight of her on the little balcony the moment I’d walked up to the pool. It had been a mild shock but not enough to stop me. Knowing she was watching had been a bit of titillation, a small thrill in my otherwise staid life. I even played it up, getting out of the pool in a way I knew would let her see everything. It hadn’t turned me on, exactly. My heart had been too heavy with old memories last night. But it had been something different, something outside the simmering rage and frustration I usually carried.
When I’d looked up to find her gone, I’d been weirdly disappointed. Foolish. Despite our heated exchange, I wasn’t about to try anything with Emma. I just wanted to be alone.
Yeah, a regular Greta Garbo I was. I was also a liar.
The truth had barely crystalized in my head when Sal sauntered in, wearing a purple-and-blue silk caftan that was the same as the one Amalie wore today.
“You gotta stop dressing exactly like Mamie,” I said by way of greeting. “It’s doing my head in.”
He stopped on the other side of the counter. “Don’t tell me you have a problem with men who have fabulous taste in clothes.”
“Please. Who brought you that overpriced banana-yellow drapey dress you just had to have when we were hanging out in Paris five years ago? If it was fabulous is debatable.”
Sal’s look of disgust almost made me smile. “Only you would refer to a gorgeous Tadashi Shoji couture gown as an overpriced banana-yellow drapey dress. Really, Luc, the disrespect.”
“It draped and was yellow.”
“Ugh.” Sal sighed dramatically, then eyed me. “I am not dressing like Amalie.”
“Yes, you are. To a T, as Amalie would say.” I glanced at him before going back to my dough. “You’re even wearing the same shade of lipstick she has on today.”
Sal peered at himself in the reflection of a hanging copper pot and then frowned. “Shit. You’re right. We’re merging.”