Chapter 17 (1/2)

I squint at the price. Five thousand euros each. Holy shit!

”They're really expensive!” I gasp.

”So?” He nuzzles me again. ”Get used to it, Ana.” He releases me and saunters over to the desk where a young woman dressed entirely in white is standing gaping at him. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings. Five thousand euros . . . jeez.

We have finished lunch and are relaxing over coffee at the Hotel Le Saint Paul. The view of the surrounding countryside is stunning. Vineyards and fields of sunflowers form a patchwork across the plain, interspersed here and there with neat little French farmhouses. It's such a clear, beautiful day we can see all the way to the sea, glinting faintly on the horizon. Christian interrupts my reverie.

”You asked me why I braid your hair,” he murmurs. His tone alarms me. He looks . . . guilty.

”Yes.” Oh shit.

”The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don't know if it's a memory or a dream.”

Whoa! His birth mom.

He gazes at me, his expression unreadable. My heart leaps into my mouth. What do I say when he says things like this?

”I like you playing with my hair.” My voice is gentle and hesitant. He blinks, his eyes wide, and fearful.

”Do you?”

”Yes.” It's the truth. Reaching over I grasp his hand. ”I think you loved your birth mother, Christian.” His eyes widen even more and he stares at me impassively, saying nothing.

Holy shit. Have I gone too far? Say something, Fifty - please. But he remains resolutely mute, gazing at me with fathomless gray eyes while the silence stretches between us.

What are you thinking, husband of mine? He looks lost. He glances down at my hand on his and he frowns.

”Say something,” I whisper, because I cannot bear the silence any longer.

He blinks then shakes his head, exhaling deeply.

”Let's go.” He releases my hand and stands. His expression guarded. Have I overstepped the mark? I have no idea. My heart sinks and I don't know whether to say anything else or just let it go. I decide on the latter and follow him dutifully out of the restaurant. In the lovely narrow street, he takes my hand.

”Where do you want to go?”

He speaks! And he's not mad at me - thank heavens. I exhale, relieved, and shrug. ”I am just glad you're still speaking to me.”

”You know I don't like talking about all that shit. It's done. Finished,” he says quietly .