Wishing Well Read online

  But Vincent had stopped him, hadn’t he? An act that earned him brownie points in my book. After giving me time to calm down, and before taking me to the gardens, he’d also given me enough cash to buy myself some new clothes and have my license replaced. I’d offered to pay him back eventually, but he flat out refused and said, say gra-tees , whatever that meant. I was going to have to buy a French to English dictionary soon, just so I could understand him. For all I knew, he could be calling me a filthy whore and I would smile like an idiot because it sounded pretty.

  My shift ended around six that night and I hurried to my hotel room to find my only set of clothes hanging in a bag on the door, freshly cleaned, dried and folded. I could get used to other people doing my laundry for me, but I assumed that would eventually be my job as well since I was technically an employee instead of a guest.

  I showered quickly and got dressed, choosing to twist my hair up in a knot rather than dry it, and within minutes I was heading through the lobby on my way to department stores where I could buy more than just one outfit with the cash that Vincent had given me. I’d practically made it to the doors when a certain deep voice caught my attention, my head spinning to the right to see Vincent standing near the front counter speaking to a group of women who must have been guests.

  My heart fluttered like it had tiny wings, and while I cursed at myself for the instant reaction, I watched with interest as Vincent wooed the women, his attitude, his dark looks, his voice that was so smooth it melted on the tongue like the finest of chocolate, easily dragging smiles and soft laughter from the women’s lips, two of them daring to reach out and touch him.

  I wondered if I was developing a mental problem when jealousy reared its ugly green head, my fingers curling into my palms to see those women flirt so obnoxiously. I wasn’t sure what drew Vincent’s attention my direction, but as soon as he saw me, he winked and turned his attention back to the women he was escorting from the lobby to the elevators in the back hallway.

  Briefly wondering whether he would leave them at the doors, or if he’d follow them to their room to take part in some orgy, I grit my teeth. I knew he’d have no trouble luring them to strip off their expensive clothes, one by one.

  There was just something about him that had snuck inside me as easily as I assumed it snuck inside all of his female admirers.

  A heavy sigh blew over my lips. I forced myself out the door, and farther out the gate of the large circular wall that guarded the grounds of the hotel from easy view.

  Shopping took no time at all, and I’d been careful to save enough for my identification that I’d have to get on a day I had off from work. I bought some toiletries and other odds and ends to hold me over until I would receive my next paycheck, splurging on a leather bound journal I could use to record my thoughts. I had no one I could talk to anymore, so I chose to talk to myself. I made it back to the hotel around ten that night. Picking up another cheeseburger and fries from the dining room (much to the dismay of the chef), I took my dinner up to my room, pigged out and fell asleep by eleven.

  It surprised me to wake up that night before the sun was a glow on the horizon, my alarm clock flashing three fifteen when a noise outside caught my attention. At first I’d thought some guests had gotten too rowdy, but then a high pitched voice with a recognizable accent set my eyes wide and my heart racing.

  Curiosity dragged me out of my bed, holding my hand as I walked barefoot over the soft white carpet to pull the curtain aside and look down at the wishing well I’d seen that morning when Vincent was giving me the tour. Just as I suspected, I saw Émilie sitting on one of the circular benches, her mouth wide as she spoke to Vincent in French. I couldn’t understand a damn word she was saying, but by her tone I knew her words weren’t friendly.

  Vincent had removed the suit jacket he’d worn earlier that day, and was dressed only in a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and dark slacks. He paced angrily in front of her, stopping when she said something else, a smile stretching his face. Feeling like a voyeur, I shifted my weight from foot to foot, not knowing if I should keep watching. But I couldn’t help staring down wondering if he was breaking up with her for me. A small smile split my lips, not for the pain she was experiencing, but for the small bit of confidence his attention gave me.

  The scene ended as quickly as it had begun when Vincent marched off, leaving Émilie crying on the bench. Seconds passed as I waited for Vincent to return. When he came back into view, he glanced up at the hotel, my heart jumping into my throat for fear I’d been caught spying. Quickly closing the curtain, I pressed myself flat to the wall, my breath heavy in my chest. More soft noises filtered up to my window, and although I fought not to look, I found myself peeking down again from behind a curtain I’d moved just a fraction of an inch.

  Confusion filtered in when I noticed that Vincent had changed shirts, the white he’d worn earlier, now blue. It had to be him, I thought. The hair was the same, the build, the color of his skin, but yet there was something different I couldn’t put my finger on.

  While I narrowed my eyes trying to see his face in the shadows, Émilie wiped the tears from her eyes before standing from the bench. Slowly, she turned around, her shaky hands hiking up her skirt as she presented herself to the man at her back, her skirt pulled up to her waist as her hands moved to brace herself on the bench as he approached her.

  My jaw dropped when Vincent, or whoever the man was, opened his pants, grabbed her hips and thrust inside her.

  Fighting the urge to scream, or cry, or yell at myself for even caring, I tried, but failed miserably, to ignore the way my body reacted. Moans poured from Émilie’s lips, her eyes squeezing tight as Vincent’s hand slapped her ass, each hard thrust of his hips knocking her forward while she held on to the bench to keep steady.

  I’d been so fucking stupid to believe he would actually leave her for me. I deserved this awkward pain for even wanting a man that would jump from one woman to another. What kind of bitch did that make me?

  Letting go of the curtain, I ran to my bed, threw myself on the mattress and gripped the sheets while burying my head in a pillow. I didn’t need to see anymore, didn’t want to admit to myself that just watching him fuck her was enough to hurt me.

  Fuck, I was being stupid. I was being naive. I was being -

  A muffled scream from outside drew my attention, a splash forcing me back to my feet. My fingers pulled aside the curtain again. I peered out from behind the partition to see Vincent looking down into the well.

  What the fuck was going on?

  Leaning over the stone rim, he pulled at something, an arm finally appearing from the water, Émilie’s body slowly emerging. After tugging her over the side, he laid her on the ground beside the well, allowing seconds to pass before picking her up and carrying her toward the path leading back to the hotel. Her head was limp against his shoulder and I couldn’t tell if she was breathing. But before I could even make a guess, Vincent shot a look up toward my window, his eyes just barely missing mine. I allowed the curtain to fall back into place.

  She couldn’t be dead.

  She couldn’t.

  Maybe she’d just tripped and fallen in?

  Vincent was walking far too slowly for anything else. It made sense that it had been an accident because if Émilie had died, Vincent would have been running or screaming for help.

  My heart raced like it would tear from my chest, my breath coming so fast and hard that I stood frozen in one place not knowing whether to crawl back in bed or call the police.

  Taking deep breaths, I attempted to calm my heart, forcing myself to crawl back in bed for fear I’d hear a knock at my door within minutes. Had he seen me watching? Had Émilie just drowned? I didn’t fucking know and I slept horribly the rest of the night, every small noise forcing me awake, terrified that he’d known I was spying and would fire me.

  The sun had just started rising when I finally gave up on sleep and sat on the edge of t
he bed, my head cradled in my hands. Within an hour, I’d convinced myself that my imagination was getting the best of me, that maybe the entire thing had been some bad dream. And with those thoughts in mind, I got up and got dressed, not wanting to be late for my second shift.

  After taking the elevator down to the first floor employee hall, I weaved through the mazelike corridors, letting myself into the housekeeping department where Theresa stood folding sheets. Glancing at me, she smiled. “You’re right on time. It’s good to have an employee that cares about her job.”

  Panic shot through my heart, my pulse like a trapped insect beneath my skin. Walking to the older woman with greying hair and a trim figure, I met her tired blue eyes with my own. “Is there a problem with another employee?”

  Maybe Émilie had never shown, not that the lounge opened earlier than six that night. I was being ridiculous, I kept insisting to myself.

  “It’s Émilie,” she breathed out, “one of my cocktail waitresses in the lounge. I guess the love affair she was having with another...” she paused, searching for a word, “...employee didn’t work out. She quit early this morning.”

  Setting the sheet aside, she missed the way my body practically melted with relief. A dead person doesn’t quit, they just fail to show up, and if Theresa had heard from Émilie already, it meant she was very much alive. While silently thanking God I hadn’t witnessed anything I shouldn’t, I leaned against a wall for support.

  Turning to me, Theresa asked, “You don’t happen to know anybody who needs a job, do you? I need to fill Émilie’s position quickly. We’re short staffed as it is.”

  My hand was still over my chest when her inquisitive gaze met mine. Pushing myself up on unsteady legs, I shook my head, attempting not to sound as out of breath as I was. “No. Sorry. But if I run into anybody looking, I’ll be sure to send them your way.”

  Theresa gave me an odd look, but decided against asking a question. “Okay, well, we’re waiting on the rest of today’s housekeeping staff to arrive. Once they get here, I’ll pass out room assignments and we can move forward with our day.”

  “Sounds good,” I answered, studying my feet as I worked to get myself under control. After that particular night, I wondered if I’d be able to look Vincent in the eyes if I saw him, and if he’d seen me watching from behind the curtain.

  The best bet, I told myself, was to avoid Vincent altogether, not just because I wanted to avoid getting in trouble for spying, but because my heart skipped a beat to learn that Émilie had been kicked to the curb.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Vincent

  After leaving the garden, I walked my normal rounds of the hotel, greeting guests as they meandered about, met with the manager to help with any problems that needed to be addressed, and then made my way to the elevators to take the car down to the basement I’d designed to be a practical cage when the hotel was built.

  It wasn’t a bleak environment by any stretch of the imagination, but for the occupant that lived within its walls, I wanted to ensure there was no chance of an accidental escape at an inopportune time. Wishing Well was built with the idea of luxury and a sense of peace, opulence and a elegant ambience. And if a certain issue were to find his way out of the basement to run loose through the halls, I was fairly certain I would be made to answer numerous questions I never wanted asked.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t love Maurice, in fact, the opposite was true. I loved him too much, which was why I spared no expense to see to his comfort, left no stone unturned when it came to providing him with the best doctors, nurses and counselors the world had to offer, but as I’d known since growing up with a boy of his peculiar problems, there would never be an actual cure.

  He’d been normal until age two, except for the temper tantrums that were blamed on age and the inability to communicate. By the time he should have made certain milestones, a problem surfaced that set him apart. The doctors claimed he was slow, at first, some even suggesting he was spoiled. After my mother’s constant phone calls, my father’s rage, and time spent wherein Maurice could be observed, my baby brother was diagnosed with severe autism.

  The signs were there, an inability to communicate, the refusal to meet your eye, the desperate need for a constant routine where just one small change could set him into an explosive panic that was far more violent than my dear Maman could endure. My father was often away, his hotels and other businesses keeping him busy, so it was Maman and I who tended to a boy that, while intelligent, was unable to behave as any normal child would.

  It wasn’t until he was older that the diagnosis changed.

  Slipping a key into the elevator panel and typing in a code that would take me to the basement used only for Maurice, I leaned against the back wall and closed my eyes. My thoughts drifted to my childhood home, to the screaming, the crying, the shattering glass, the whispers of a mother that was losing her own grip on the world. Maman was as delicate as a hollowed eggshell, so easily crushed within the strict grip of panic for her son that not even the nurses and teachers could relieve her pain.

  In the end, she’d died of cancer, but I always assumed it was from a broken heart. To say I felt bitter would be an understatement. In all the time she gave to Maurice, she could never spare a moment for me. I would have made her proud had she given me that attention, I would have read to her, behaved for her, showed her that not all young boys were untamed. I could have saved her, I’d believed, as her casket was lowered into the ground, could have provided her sunlight on even her darkest days.

  I hated her for dying when I hadn’t given her permission, I resented Maurice for wrestling her from my control. I understood that women were just simple flowers that could be cultivated to bloom, or have their petals pulled.

  By the time my father moved both Maurice and me to America, I had no respect for a woman’s strength, because my mother had none of her own.

  The elevator slowed to a stop, the doors slid open as quietly as an exhalation of breath, a large entry room stood open to me as dark and elegant as Maurice had preferred. The walls were painted a deep black with borders of pristine white.

  Dark wood furnishings complimented the leather seating, crystal vases shimmering beneath light, a wash of blood red color in the roses that filled them. Breathing in the rich scent, I stepped from the car, made a left and casually strolled to a sitting room I knew Maurice often used. It had been designed to resemble the salón from our childhood home, the color palette bright, just how our mother had wanted it.

  Lingering in the doorway, I watched Maurice tap away on his computer, his eyes moving quickly as his fractured mind absorbed whatever information he was studying.

  “I thought you had a counseling session today.”

  This was one of the issues my hotel manager had brought to my attention, a certain counselor racing away, vowing she would never again return to this hotel. Although John knew that something had frightened her, she refused to reveal what, exactly, had occurred.

  “The counselor left,” Maurice explained, his fingers moving quickly over his keyboard.

  In the twenty-seven years since Maman had died, it was discovered that Maurice’s affliction was not actually autism, but a severe case of schizophrenia. He’d gained the ability to communicate, he could look any person in the eye, but behind that green eyed gaze that was much like mine, sanity was noticeably absent. The medications kept him partially contained, but only when he was compliant.

  “Why did she leave?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice patient.

  “I told her I wanted to eat her.”

  Closing my eyes and opening them again, I remembered telling Penelope the same thing, but in a language that wouldn’t send her running. “And did you attempt to eat her?”

  His gaze shot up, locking to mine. “I would have if she would have spread her legs. It’s been a month.”

  “Maurice-“

  “You have many,” he said, interrupting. “Give me one. It’s not exactly l
ike I can hunt them down when stuck in this cage.”

  Sighing, I answered, “It’s not exactly like I can steal one away and keep her trapped down here with you. I’m sure your nurses will ask questions about the screaming.”

  His eyes studied my face, his intelligence so clear while his chaos was pervasive. “One,” he barked, “Tonight. Or I’ll chase the nurses away.”

  “We can always keep you chained,” I crooned.

  “I’m chained already,” he retorted, his attention returning to the screen of his computer. Without looking at me again, he demanded, “One, Vincent. Tonight.”

  Blowing out a breath, I relented. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do when I bring you out for your walk through the gardens, but you must promise to behave.”

  He gave me a clipped nod of agreement and I knew it would be the end of the conversation. Maurice wasn’t the type for small talk.

  Leaving his space, I made my way back to the elevator while deciding who I would toss to the wolf. By the time I’d reached the lobby floor, my decision was made, a pretty face flashing in my thoughts that I hoped would be amenable to my brother’s demands.

  The day passed quickly thereafter, the monotonous task of seeing to a hotel that ran like a finely oiled machine within my world. As the sun set behind a glowing horizon, I greeted a group of women who had recently checked in, flirting with them and endearing them to my brand. It was as I turned to escort them to the elevator that would take them to their floor, my attention was drawn to a unique face, my head turning to see Penelope watching me from where she stood near the entrance doors. She was wearing the clothes she wore the night I’d discovered her on the streets, jealousy flashing behind her gold-flecked brown eyes.

  Our time in the garden had been well spent, it seemed, the seed I’d planted growing strong. Winking at her, I forced myself to return my attention to the guests because it would be a few days at least before I tested the waters of Penelope’s mind to discover if my absence had made her heart beat harder.