Cursed (6 page)

CHAPTER
Twenty-four

Lille awoke suddenly, but even though panic had her heart racing, she didn't move, didn't change her breathing. She waited, letting the awareness of her surroundings slowly sink into her flesh. The sun was shining on her; she could tell that from the warmth on her face and the red glow in front of her eyes.

She was wrapped around a warm, muscled body—Max.

Memories of the previous night, of being laid gently on the bed and tied, were superimposed with an image of Paul, his eyes wide and confused as he held a gun to her head.

She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut and thought just of Max, of last night, of
the
last night. Only it was morning now, and she wasn't going anywhere.

“I decided that I'm not ready for our night to end,” Max said from above her. He was straddling her hips and had already taken one of her arms and tied it to the bedpost with a hideous 1970s tie.

Lille had laughed. “That's a far cry from
Fifty Shades of Grey,
you know.”

He'd snorted and tied her other wrist with another tie, this one a green-and-orange paisley print. “One woman wants to be spanked, and now we all have to be billionaires with gray ties.”

Running one of the hideous things through her fingers, she couldn't help but be glad that it wasn't gray, that he wasn't taking this too seriously. “Why do you have such ugly ties?” He pulled out a cotton-candy-pink one with small pigs all over it and used it to tie her left ankle to the footboard.

“It's tradition, like.” He knotted it loosely. “Every year on St. Pat's, the lads buy me a new ugly tie to wear. I forget why it started.”

“You must have quite a collection,” Lille noted.

“Aye,” he agreed, and tied her other ankle to the footboard—this tie had little leprechauns on it.

“I like that one, darling,” Lille said. “They look depraved.”

He laughed, moving so that he was kneeling between her spread legs. “That they do. I told the lads that meself, but I don't think they imagined I'd use it quite this way.”

Lille felt her own lips twitch; though the sight of him kneeling between her legs had taken her breath, she still felt like laughing. Who would have thought Max Jobman could be funny?

He stroked his hands up her thighs slowly, making her gasp.

“No talking, lass, this is my show.”

“Have you ever been in love, Max?” Lille threw it out there like a grenade, wondering what he'd say, what he'd do.

He looked appalled. “God, no. Women in general can't be trusted.”

“Trusted with what?”

He thought about that for a moment, then climbed off of her and went back to his closet.

“This is as close to gray as I've got, pet, so shut up.”

It was a gray tie—sort of. It had dolphins on it. He gagged her with it, tying it gently around her head.

He climbed back between her legs and looked satisfied with his handiwork.

He met her eyes and was serious for a moment, just for a moment. “They can't be trusted to stay, lass. Women always leave, even the good ones, but I'd be willing to take a chance on you if you'd let me.” And then he was teasing again, his eyes hot as he looked at her. “But for right now, you're not going anywhere, are you?”

He proceeded to stroke her ankles slowly, his rough fingers tracing them as if he could see invisible tattoos, lines of demarcation that would tell him the map of her. Lille closed her eyes and her teeth on the gag in her mouth. She surrendered herself up to him, to the feel of his hands and his lips.

“Do you like this, lass?” he murmured, placing a kiss on the corner of her left knee, teasing it with the tip of his tongue.

She did. And she liked it when he stroked her arms from her wrists to her armpits, not tickling, not at all, but using long, sure strokes that reminded her of getting a massage. That's what he was doing, she realized. He was rubbing her down, relaxing her, rocking her like waves rock a boat, loosening muscles, inhibitions, doubts, fears. He stroked and rocked and kissed, and with each touch Lille felt herself unraveling like a snagged cashmere sweater, until tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She wanted to give up, turn herself over into this man's hands and listen to his ridiculous accent and watch him read books and tend bar. She couldn't do it, though; if she let go, if she trusted, horrible things happened. He would want her to change; he'd want her to stop managing the store, to stop appearing in the videos.

He didn't seem to notice her upheaval, his gaze now focused between her legs. He lifted her hips and spread her wide, his thumbs stroking the tendons of her thighs while he admired her.

“Such a pretty little pussy, so soft and wet.”

She was wet, drenched actually, her body lifting and vibrating involuntarily, so that when he pressed his mouth to her, she came, jerking and crying out.

“There's a good girl,” he chuckled. “Stay with me now. I'm not finished with you.”

He wasn't finished, not for a while, but Lille knew she couldn't give in to what she wanted, which was to stay, to be with Max and go on dates, to be normal. She wasn't going to be able to do that—she was horrible at it. She'd made herself the Fetish Queen, and she did that well. If that meant she was cursed, then she would have to accept it. And part of her, the part that she normally stamped down to a small pitiful creature in the pit of her stomach, was suddenly very, very sorry for it.

Lille felt tears sting her eyes, thinking of it; then she realized that she heard someone else in the room. There was a faint, very faint, swishing noise.

Cracking her eyes open gently, she saw Mary, her face intent as she studied Lille and Max, her tongue between her teeth. She dabbed a brush into some paint and turned to a canvas that she'd set up on a wire-frame easel, her movements swift and sure.

“Mary.” Lille sat up quickly, looking around for a sheet. “What are you doing in here?”

“What the fuck?” Max shot up beside her.

“Lie back down, damn it,” Mary ordered, her gray eyes hot, “both of you.”

Lille paused, never having heard that tone from her friend before. Max clearly had, though, or at least he didn't seem surprised. What surprised Lille was that he did just as her friend asked, lying back down the way he'd been.

“Mary.” Lille refused to remain there while Mary painted her naked in bed with Max.

“Lille.” Mary continued to paint. “Your right arm and leg were thrown over Max.”

“I know that, but—”

Mary stopped painting and looked at her. “I was worried about you. I came here and saw you lying in the sun with Max, surrounded by colorful ties and his even more colorful tattoos. I had to paint it. So lie still and enjoy the sunshine.”

Lille hadn't fully comprehended how much this place had changed her friend until this moment. The old Mary wouldn't have dreamed of invading someone's bedroom to paint them, no matter how badly she may have wanted to. But now she was so bold, confident—secure in herself and what she did.

Flummoxed and more than a little uncertain in light of her friend's transformation, Lille lay back down, wrapping her arms around Max, her heart racing, as was his.

“This is crazy,” she whispered to him, and he chuckled.

“Mary is crazy—or didn't you know that?”

No, Lille hadn't known, but it pleased her, enough that she stayed still and enjoyed the feel of Max's body beneath her. It was strange to be so close to him and not have sex. His hair was a mess, stuck up in all directions on his head. He had a mole on one shoulder, hidden in one of the fins of his mermaid. He was looking at her, too, staring at her as if he was willing her to say something in particular. Lille dropped her eyes, uncomfortable. She wasn't wearing makeup, she realized, and her face was probably swollen. Her mouth still tasted vaguely like copper from the cut on the inside of her cheek. She glanced up at him through her lashes, and he stroked some hair away from her face.

She'd never felt so conflicted, so torn between what she wanted and who she knew she was.

Mary knew
Lille was ready to flee. It
was her pattern: too much intimacy, and Lille found a way to untangle herself. Mary had seen it a dozen times, though Lille seemed more comfortable with Max than with her other lovers—Mary had never seen her let her guard down like this before.

She hadn't understood why Lille was so flighty until she'd learned about her father, about a childhood that was likely infinitely more difficult than Lille had made it out to be. Someone as beautiful as Lille always attracted attention, perhaps unwanted attention, perhaps more than once. She'd compensated by making a persona for herself, a mask to hide behind, but if someone started to see behind it, Lille grew uncomfortable and tried to get away.

Mary felt her lips tighten in frustration, but her hand remained steady on the canvas, tracing the lines and curves of two of the most beautiful people she knew, letting the color and light float over her as she considered angles, textures, and the delicacy of the shadows that shifted and changed with each second.

In her mind's eye, she saw two lovers who were meant to be together, whose bodies fit together almost as well as their spirits, but they held themselves apart, too afraid to trust, either one of them, though Max seemed as if he was willing to try. The fact that they had good reason didn't make it less sad, or less of a shame. She painted for over an hour, until she knew they could stay still no longer.

“Okay, you two, breakfast is on me,” Mary declared, and began packing up her painting supplies.

Lille sat up, feeling her body protest. “Are you sure, darling?” Lille muttered sarcastically, rotating her shoulder, which was stiff from holding her position as Mary painted, not to mention the position Max had placed her in last night.

He sat up behind her and rubbed out some of the stiffness in her shoulders briskly, before kissing her cheek and stroking one hand down her arm.

“You have quite a collection of my naked arse, Mary.”

“Indeed I do,” Mary agreed. “It's a lovely naked arse.”

“Thanks, lass.” He kissed Mary's temple and headed naked into the bathroom, singing an Irish drinking song at the top of his lungs.

Mary looked shrewdly at Lille, her tone disapproving. “I've never seen him that happy.”

“Why is that a bad thing?” Lille demanded, but she knew, and the worry had her chewing on her lower lip.

Mary's eyes narrowed. “Because you're not going to give this a chance, and you're a damn fool, Lillehammer Marceau.” She sniffed, tucked her canvas and the foldable easel under one arm, then picked up her tackle box with paint supplies.

“I'll see you over at our house,” Mary called over her shoulder as she left the room.

Lille shook her head and began hunting for her clothes. Her friend had certainly turned into a bossy pain in the ass. And worst of all, Lille worried that she was right.

“Well, lass.
Good morning.”

“Good morning, Max,” she said against his chest. He rocked her, just a little, as if they were dancing.

“I'm hoping you've changed your mind.”

Lille swallowed the lump in her throat. “About what?”

His fingers tightened on her back. “Come on, Lille. What're you afraid of?”

Lille pulled away enough to look up at him, her green eyes bright in the morning light, her mouth red and swollen from his kisses and other things.

“Max, I—” She stopped, unable to put into words just what made her unwilling to jump into a relationship with him, no matter how much she liked him, no matter how much she was tempted. She had worked so hard to make herself Lille, so hard to be invincible and untouchable—she wasn't able to give that up, not even for the temptation of him. “I just can't,” she finished.

He looked stony-faced, as if he was doing all he could not to react, but the gleam of fury she saw was unmistakable.

She braced herself for name-calling, for ugliness, but after a moment he stepped away, releasing her.

“All right then, lass,” he murmured. “I'm to the shower.”

Lille watched him leave, admiring the broad, painted surface of his back; the tight buttocks; the long, muscled legs. She'd never been so sorry to see someone leave.

CHAPTER
Twenty-five

When Lille finally found her clothes, she realized they were still sandy and damp, so Max gave her a pair of boxers and a blue T-shirt when he got out of the shower. He was polite but distant when he told her she could keep them since he never wore them. She located her flip-flops after a brief search, and they went out through the French doors in the kitchen to the backyard he shared with Mary. The dogs were out, and Bambi immediately bulleted toward Max and Lille, Atticus a white fluffy streak on her heels.

“Bambi.” Max threw his arms wide, and the dog leaped into them like a baby. He carried her into Mary's house while Lille picked up the white dog, who licked her frantically, as if he'd been worried about her. She scratched his ears and followed behind Max into a cacophony of chatter and clinking dishes and the smell of coffee, French toast, and bacon.

Lille felt her spirits lift—how could she not?—and set Atticus down to scamper into the kitchen. Max was already there when she stepped through the entryway, as were Jordan and Kim, sitting fairly close together at the breakfast table; Carl, who was expertly wielding a spatula at the stove and wearing a leopard-print apron; and John and Mary, of course, who were pouring coffee into various mugs. Lille felt her heart clutch again—she'd become part of this oddball family since coming to Florida.

“What's the party for?” Lille called out, wanting to be heard over the noise, and Carl turned around from his position at the stove.

“Lille, my love, are you okay?” He set his spatula down on the stove and hurried over to her, hugging her tightly.

Lille hugged him back, meeting Mary's eyes over his shoulder. “I'm fine, Carl. I promise.”

He gave her another squeeze and pulled away. “We are definitely getting a massage today before we try on costumes for the party.”

Max's eyebrows gathered together at the mention of the Halloween party, but he didn't say anything. He took a piece of bacon off a plate near the stove and ate it as he stood next to the island.

Lille sat across from Jordan and Kim, who wasn't recording for once, but she did have a digital camera, and she snapped a picture of Lille as she sat down at the table.

“Nice outfit,” was her only comment.

Lille gave her the finger and hoped that John and Mary planned on bringing the coffee over pretty quickly.

By the time everyone had taken a seat—Mary and John sat at the barstools in the center island—thirty minutes had passed, and Lille, who was more than a little tired after the events of the evening, had drunk two cups of coffee. She wasn't particularly hungry, though, and just picked at her bacon and eggs.

“So,” John announced between bites of eggs, “I think Lille has something to tell us.”

Lille froze. She'd told Mary and John about her father, and of course Carl knew, but she didn't see why everyone had to know.

“You and Max are engaged?” Carl suggested, and Max smacked him upside the head.

“Wouldn't that be interesting,” John murmured. “Lille?”

Lille dropped her bacon and turned to look at him. “Why, John? That has nothing to do with last night or yesterday afternoon, for that matter.”

“Maybe not, but since the videos garner us so much attention, good and bad, it's better if all the cards are on the table,” John argued firmly, pointing his own piece of bacon at her.

Lille shook her head and turned back to the group at the table, avoiding Max's curious gaze. “My real name isn't Lille Marceau,” she threw out, shaking her head, her mouth dry. “It's Sarah. Sarah Wells.”

“Seriously?” Kim asked. “Where the fuck is my camera?”

“You can't record this. Or say anything, though I guess that doesn't fucking matter anymore, does it?” she muttered for John's benefit.

“Lille, what the fuck?” Max asked, touching her elbow.

She shook him off and finally met his eyes. “I ran away from my father when I was young. Fourteen. He'd just been let out of prison. My mom was a whore in Vegas, and my father was a Russian gangster's son. I've been running ever since.”

“Holy shit.” Jordan was wide-eyed, his face pale. “Seriously?”

Lille nodded and looked away from the astonishment in Max's face. “John wants me to tell you . . . because of last night.”

“I don't understand. What does last night have to do with your father?” Max looked at her as if he'd never seen her before.

Lille straightened her shoulders. “Nothing. At least, I don't think they're connected. Just that it was my past come back to haunt me, you know? My father has been trying to contact me recently. He's found out who I am somehow, and even though it doesn't seem as if he means me any harm, so far, John wants all of you to know.”

“So we can be on the lookout,” Jordan gathered, and Lille nodded.

No one said anything for a few minutes; the sound of the birds chirping outside was the only noise.

Lille stood. “I'm going to go get showered and changed. Carl, Mary, I'll be ready in thirty minutes.” She looked at Max, who was still sitting at the table, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

“Have a good day,” she told him lamely, and turned away, walking through the living room and into her bedroom, where she closed and locked the door behind her.

She sat down carefully on her bed, holding her stomach like a woman who'd been gut-punched.

Not two seconds later, a knock pounded. Max.

“Lille, let me in.”

Lille gritted her teeth and leaned over to unlock the door, straightening her spine when he came into the room, huge and imposing in the tiny space, his eyes a little wild.

“What can I help you with, darling?” she challenged, tilting her chin at him, playing Lille to the hilt.

“You aren't just avoiding being with me, are you? You're thinking of leaving altogether,” he said flatly, and Lille felt her eyes lower and skate away, despite her best efforts to keep them still.

“Fuck.” He stalked over to the tiny window. It faced the overgrown jungle in the front yard, so there wasn't much to see except shadowy palm fronds and tabby cats lazing in the trees.

“Why'd you bother to come, then? Why put yourself out there?” He waved a hand. He didn't look at her as he spoke; she wasn't even sure he was talking to her.

She didn't answer. She hadn't even realized she'd been thinking of leaving until he'd mentioned it, until he'd pointed it out.

“Why'd you come and do all this,
Fetish Queen
?” he sneered, running his hands through his hair. “You made yourself famous, you've done well at the store, worked your ass off. Why would you do all that, knowing you were going to leave, knowing that your father could be out there somewhere, looking for you?”

“I wanted the store to be a success. I wanted it to be different here. I thought I wouldn't be—”

“Wouldn't be what?”

Lille looked at him. “I thought I wouldn't be afraid. I tried to change myself for Paul. I tried to be normal. It didn't work. So here I tried to be the opposite—strong. Fearless.”

“That's shite and you know it.” He turned and waved at the boxes and suitcases that lined one wall of her bedroom. “You haven't even unpacked.”

Lille looked at the evidence. “That doesn't matter. I never unpack right away.”

“It's been almost two months,” Max argued. “A month of working, and becoming famous, and making us love you. Why would you leave?”

Love. Lille quaked inside. He couldn't love her—no one could. They didn't know her. She didn't know herself.

She stood, suddenly furious. “You
don't
know me, Max Jobman. I wanted to stay.
Want
to stay. I want it to work. I always want it to work, but I . . . ”

“You what?” He took her upper arms.

“I'm cursed,” she spat at him. “This”—she waved a hand down her body—“gets me so much attention, so many declarations of love. You want to know how many of them really loved me? Not one. Yesterday isn't the first time I've been attacked. You think my father is something my imagination cooked up? He's not. He was in prison for raping and murdering an eleven-year-old. Sound like a nice guy to you? That's what I come from.”

Max gripped her shoulders. “You don't let anybody love you.”

“You think I want someone hurting Mary, or John, or”—she motioned at him—“or you?”

“No one is going to hurt us,” he started to argue, but she shook her head.

“You don't know that,” she said, sticking her chin out. “You don't.”

He pulled her closer, until his blue eyes were inches from her face and blazing. “I don't give a fuck, Lille.”

Lille swallowed, limp in his grasp.

He released her, his face a mask of frustration and agony. “All you have to do is stay, lass. I'll take the risk of you, if you'll take the risk of me.”

And then he left. Damn him.

Carl, tears in his eyes, appeared in the doorway a minute later; he held a mimosa in one hand and a box of Kleenex in the other. “Girl, I think you need one of these.”

Lille took the drink and the box of tissues and made good use of both.