SECRET Revealed (30 page)

What a crazy, sad little circle, I thought, warm tears flooding my eyes. I searched for my anger because it had to be there somewhere, but strangely, as soon as it surfaced, it disappeared. Then fear rose up. But fear of what? Of rejection? Fear couldn’t find any purchase either, and it drifted away. It seemed like there was nothing for these old, bad feelings to cling to. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and made my way down Third. At Magazine I flagged a cab, too tired to walk back home.

After a good cry, I slept better that night than I had in a long, long time.

I
got out of the car and stood at the foot of Rue Foucault in the Trocadéro, holding my Step Eight card between shaky fingers. Poking my head out of the back of the limousine, I double-checked the directions, noting the word
Bravery
etched into the heavy paper, and beneath that, a note from Matilda.

I walked up to the imposing Moorish door of the four-story mansion, a dozen Juliet balconies above facing the street. Technically it was a townhouse located at the end of a stretch of sumptuous buildings dating back to at least the 1700s. Before my knuckle could strike the ancient wood, the door eased opened and a very tall, very old butler bowed
deeply before me. He straightened and his arm swept me into an all-white marble foyer almost as big as the one at the New Orleans Museum of Art.

“Nous vous attendions, Mademoiselle Faraday. Puis-je prendre votre manteau?”
he said.

Manteau
. I knew that much French. I wasn’t sure what to wear to an interview-masquerading-as-a-sex-fantasy, so I had just dressed the part of a reporter—cream slacks, silk scarf and fitted navy blazer over a white blouse. As I handed him my blazer, my arms suddenly felt chilled.

The butler led me down another long, white hall, the gallery of windows to one side framing the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
My god. This is his view
. We traipsed through two more sets of fourteen-foot double doors before the white walls gave way to dark brown paneling surrounding a stand-up stone fireplace with lion heads on the cornices. It was clearly the den or the library; books covered one wall, and on the other were large black casement windows, burgundy velvet curtains on either side cascading to a pile on the marble floor. In the middle of the room was a long mahogany desk centered over a beautiful oriental rug, behind which was a black high-back chair and another spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower. I was just catching my breath when a man behind me cleared his throat.

I spun to face Pierre Castille himself. Plain and simple, this was a handsome man.

“Solange Faraday. How nice to see a familiar face. You’ve certainly come a long way, from my TV set in New Orleans to
my little place in Paris. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding me,” he said, his smile genuinely warm, his hands extending to clasp one of mine in both of his. He had the barest of Bayou accents and was dressed casually in faded jeans and a light blue linen shirt, half tucked, the color setting off his intense green eyes. His hair was darker, shorter too, than the last time I’d seen him. And he was sober, maybe even somber. But that didn’t take away from his incredible presence; he had the kind of sexiness that, dare I say, even rivaled the MMS’s.

“Thank you for agreeing to … meet with me,” I said, surprised at my sudden butterflies.

“You have been very persistent. And I was very curious,” he said, walking past me to the bar. “What can I make you?”

“Scotch, neat. Please,” I said.

“Hmm, a grown-up’s drink.”

As he made our drinks, I looked around. “You have a beautiful home.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Like
it? I felt my shoulders drop, my jaw loosen, my knees melt.

“What does it do to a person to wake up seeing the Eiffel Tower every morning?” I asked. “Do you grow to appreciate it, or does that just get old?”

Still smiling, he approached me and handed me my drink, then took in the scene from where I was standing. The house seemed to be built on a curve, the courtyard acting as the crisp green foreground to the famous monument in the distance.

“Truth be told, it never gets old,” he said, corralling me towards one of the two leather club chairs in front of the desk.

He was a man who moved with ease, a man thoroughly comfortable in his own skin. We talked about Paris, where he was born and lived as a boy before his American mother brought him to New Orleans for his formative years.

“They wanted to scrub any vestiges of socialism from my blood before I took over the family business.”

“They seem to have succeeded.” This was my in. “You know I came here for an interview about you, your family business, its history in the city, your plans for the future of New Orleans, in particular that land down by the French Market. As one of the city’s biggest developers, are you—?”

“Yes, we’ll get to that part, I promise, Solange,” he said, waving his hand as though to clear my words from the room. “But first
I
have a question for you.”

Here we go
.

“Shoot,” I said, trying to sound calm.

“How does S.E.C.R.E.T. seem to lure such exceptional women into its fold?”

I hated that—when men, particularly powerful men, changed the subject to something frivolous and flattering when a woman asked a tough question. It was such casual sexism it almost went unnoticed, and if you complained, you were labeled humorless and, god forbid, unsexy.

“Well, seeing that you’re a former recruit, I’m assuming you understand something of S.E.C.R.E.T.’s mandate.”

“Former and hopefully current recruit.”

I gave him a tight smile. I didn’t know how to reply because my mind was suddenly churning with doubt about this adventure. A minute ago I might have been persuaded. Admittedly, I was almost swept away by the grandeur of this place, and Pierre’s considerable charms. But I knew even he could sense the chill in the room brought on by my sudden withdrawal.

Pierre shook his head as though pressing some sort of internal restart button, his voice turning buttery and conciliatory. “Before we proceed, I’m sure you’re well aware that you’ve caught me in the middle of a most unsavory year, Solange, during which my behavior has been less than stellar. Especially with your benevolent group. My mother, rest her soul, raised me to be a better man. In fact, I was quite surprised—delighted, even—that you deigned to consider including me in your … adventures.”

The more he talked, the more that chiseled jawline, the white teeth, the lock of sandy hair across his forehead began to disassemble into features that were no longer handsome; in fact, they were turning downright menacing.

“Yes, well, we made an agreement, didn’t we? I would be allowed to ask you some questions, and then you’d get to ask me yours.”

“So you first, and then me, is that what you’re saying?”

There was something unmistakably dark bubbling below the surface of his voice, and my defense mechanisms were on high alert.

“Yes, I’d prefer that,” I said.

“Besides beautiful, you’re also a savvy one, Solange.”

Okay. Mind made up. I can’t accept the Step. Time to wrap this up and get the hell out of here
. But he walked towards me, freezing me in my tracks.

“Now, Solange, let’s save the interview for later. The only question that really matters now is this: Do you accept the Step?”

I nearly choked on my Scotch. Suddenly, even this so-called feather in my journalistic cap wafted out the window and down the streets of Paris. He wanted this story on his terms, not mine, killing any remaining enthusiasm I had for this fantasy.

“How old is the house?” I asked, trying to change the subject. I crossed the room, moving away from him, acting the part of a bored tourist. I casually maneuvered over to the casement doors that led to the courtyard outside.

“Parts of it are more than three hundred years old. Can you imagine? What our lives would have been like three hundred years ago?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you,” I said, looking around. “I’d likely be out in that courtyard with the other servants, boiling sheets.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. The men in my family have always had excellent taste in women,” he said.

Sickening
.

I looked through the windows at the Eiffel Tower, trying not to seem like I was scanning the grounds for any other living soul. My inner voice told me to open the patio door
and just start walking. But when I reached for the handle, Pierre placed his hand directly over mine.
Shit
.

“I’d be thrilled to take you on a tour of the grounds … after. Now once more: do you accept the Step, Solange?”

I pulled my hand away and faced him.
Be brave
. I met his gaze, speaking as evenly as I could without letting the fear bleed into my voice.

“Thank you for asking, Pierre. I’m flattered. But in the end, I don’t believe I can accept the Step. My apologies for taking things this far and for pressing you for an interview that you still seem quite reluctant to give.”

My heart was pounding so loudly I could feel it beating through the soles of my shoes.

“So … if you don’t mind, please call your man. Tell him to bring me my blazer. I think it’s best if he shows me out.”

He looked at his watch, disappointment on his face. “Ah well, I’m afraid Charles has gone home for the evening. We’ll have to fend for ourselves. I get to ask one final time: do you accept the Step?”

“As I said, I didn’t really come here for this.”

“Here’s the thing, Solange,” he whispered, placing his hands on my upper arms and slowly walking me backwards. I inhaled sharply. “You did come here for this. You, a high-profile member of the media in our beloved city of New Orleans, are also, don’t forget, a member of a group that arranges discreet sexual encounters for a few lucky ladies. And the nature of these encounters can vary, can’t they? Some are soft and lovely and gentle. Still others take on a
darker hue; they’re risky, dangerous. They can get a little rough. They can take odd, interesting turns. These ones, I think, satisfy very deep urges that we
all
have, but few are brave enough to give in to. In fact, these are the kinds of urges that can lead some women to cross an ocean to satisfy. You came for this, Solange. You came to play dirty.”

He had me pressed firmly against the cool glass of the casement windows, his eyes liquid menace, his hands tight around my upper arms. I felt his groin against my thigh, his arousal unmistakable. I’d always wondered what I’d do in a situation like this. Would I take flight? Would I freeze and crumble? Never in my life had I been threatened or cornered. So how would I know that beneath my terror-stricken surface was a bloody-minded warrior? Calm washed over me, my adrenaline forming armor over my body. I waited a beat to reply, articulating the only word I needed, using my whole body.

“No,” I said, with a spray of spit and a lightning-fast thrust of my knee to his groin.

His face flashed before me as he buckled over, his expression that of sheer astonishment, because he knew in that moment that I would fight like a crazed animal if he pressed me any further. He groaned dramatically before bolting back upright, his hands still covering my target.

Then he started laughing.
Laughing
.

“Oh, Solange, that was … I’m just trying to think … which TV station should I give the scoop to, yours or your competition’s, when I tell them all about S.E.C.R.E.T. and its star candidate?”

That’s when
I
laughed, the warrior in me speaking now very carefully. “Is that a threat? Because if that’s a threat, Pierre, this will not go well for you either, on any level: personally, professionally, legally or physically. Don’t forget, I’m a journalist.”

His eyes were suddenly dead in their sockets. “You think I would hesitate for one second in making a big goddamn deal about what you just did because of some threat that you’d reveal my involvement in S.E.C.R.E.T.? Unlike you, I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, it’s a great story and I can’t wait to tell it.”

Could he tell I was bluffing?

“So here’s the thing,” I said. “I suggest you let me leave before this goes any further. And I suggest you do it now; otherwise I will hurt you in several more surprising ways.”

His reasoning brain seemed to kick in, replacing the reptilian one that had formerly been in charge. He dropped his hands to his sides like surrendered weapons.

“Of course. My apologies. You are free to leave, Solange. I won’t stop you.”

I kept a wary eye on him as I headed towards the exit, snatching my purse off the desk as I passed. Without looking back, without retrieving my blazer, I kept walking down the gallery, punching through two sets of high, white doors, out the front gate and onto the street where my limo still waited. I climbed in. Several blocks later, my heart rate slowed to normal; several more and my knees stopped knocking.