Roxy’s Story (31 page)

“Don’t stop them coming, anyway. I don’t mind being in the rain.”

“Oh, I won’t. Don’t worry about that. Hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, we’ll go after we finish our wine. I’ve called Norbert, by the way. He sounded
relieved.”

“Oh?”

“I think his partner was complaining about him not spending enough time with him.
Looks like I came onto the scene just in time to save his relationship. And maybe,”
he added softly, “to start one of my own.”

I didn’t say anything. I walked to the railing and looked out at the sea. Someone
was being pulled on water skis and doing well. Farther out, a rather large yacht was
making its way toward Monaco.

“Is that your parents?”

“No,” he said. “We don’t have one quite that ostentatious. That has a helicopter on
it. I believe it belongs to a prince from Saudi Arabia. He usually comes this way
about now.”

He stepped up beside me.

“I can’t help feeling that when I say something or do something to bring me closer
to you, you step back.”

I turned and looked into his eyes. “What’s your favorite gelato?” I asked him.

“Gelato? Boring to others, plain vanilla. But with a little chocolate on top. Why?
What does that have to do with what I just said?”

“Don’t you hate rushing it and hate it when you come to that final bite or lick?”

“So we’re still walking?”

“Still walking,” I said, and finished my wine.

He finished his, and we started out.

Margery stepped out of the kitchen. “Anything you need, Miss Wilcox?”

“Not at the moment, Margery,” I said. “
Merci
.”

She stood there watching us leave. I wondered if she was a lot more than just a housekeeper
and cook here. Maybe she was another spy for Mrs. Brittany. I couldn’t resent her
if she was. She and her husband probably were paid well and were comfortable. Why
should she risk any of that for me?

Paul’s restaurant in Beaulieu was delightful. The food was delicious, and like the
people at the Café de Paris, everyone, especially the owners, knew him well. We sat
at his favorite table in a corner by a window. The room was small but elegantly decorated.
I liked the intimacy of it.

Maybe it was the excellent wine and the comfort of really good food, but I found myself
becoming less defensive as the evening continued. Paul talked about his youth and
his relationship with his sister before she became so distant from the family. I think
he was being more open and revealing in the hope that I would reciprocate and tell
him real things about myself.

However, hovering close to me the whole time was Mrs. Brittany’s admonition not to
do anything to destroy the mystery. I was tempted to tell him all about myself, nevertheless,
as he prodded and pleaded.

“I want to know more about you. You fascinate me, Roxy. I feel at such a disadvantage.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be so fascinating if you knew more about me,” I said, half in jest.
“I’m here. I’m who I am right now. Why change that?”

“But I don’t know who you are right now.”

“Sure you do. You keep telling me. I’m bright,
beautiful, fascinating. Think of me as someone with whom you have fallen in love on
the movie screen. You don’t want to know anything that would stain that image, do
you? Who wants his goddesses to have feet of clay?”

He shook his head and smiled. “You are amazing.” He leaned over to kiss me. Then,
in a voice that vibrated with some fear and nervousness for the first time, he asked,
“Will you spend the night with me in my family castle?”

“Family castle? Are you going to be my prince if I do?”

“I’d be anything for you.”

Except a husband, I thought, but it didn’t matter. I wanted to be with him.

I didn’t have to say yes. He saw it in my eyes and asked for our check.

He was mostly silent on our way to his home. I sat close to him. I think he was afraid
that if he talked too much, he might break the magic spell. I know I felt that way.
It was time to put words back in a box and turn to kisses and caresses and the sweet
hot breath that would slip out of his lips to mine and mine to his.

His housekeeper wasn’t in sight when we arrived, but I had the sense that we were
being watched. He took my hand and led me quickly up the stairway to his round bedroom.
When we entered, he lifted me and placed me gently on his bed.

“I practice safe sex,” I said.

“I do, too, only I’m beyond practice,” he countered with that impish smile.

“We’ll see,” I told him.

He surprised me by getting completely undressed first. Then he knelt beside me and
slowly, like someone unwrapping a precious birthday or Christmas gift, peeled away
my clothing. He had what he needed beside the bed.

During one of our more intimate conversations, Sheena had pursued my descriptions
of my sexual experiences, demanding more and more detail, especially involving my
own reactions. I remembered telling her that it hadn’t ever yet been for me the way
it was described in her novels, the way some of the passages she read to me described
it. She was shocked to hear that most of the time, I didn’t even have an orgasm.

“Oh, I faked it sometimes when I knew the boy I was with might say something nasty
about me. I wanted him to think he was quite the stud, even though he wasn’t.”

“I thought that was possible,” she’d said. “I just didn’t understand how or why.”

“Good lovers consider each other,” I explained. “Neither is really satisfied unless
the other is, too.”

“Oh.”

I thought about that while Paul was making love to me, and I saw how much care he
was taking to satisfy me first. He didn’t rush anything, not a caress, not a kiss.
Each one was as perfect and meaningful as the previous one. In one of Sheena’s novels,
the author had described the man making love as though he were playing a beautiful
instrument. I had thought that was over the top until now. Paul strummed and touched
me to bring me to one crescendo after another. We were composing a symphony. Did this
extraordinary lovemaking stem from real passion or even, dare I say it, love, or was
he just good at what he did?

Never had I felt so wonderfully exhausted afterward. My whole body was pleased, every
part of me contented. We lay next to each other without speaking, listening to each
other’s quickened breathing as it slowed. He put his head softly against my shoulder,
and, still naked, we fell asleep beside each other. Before morning, we woke and made
love again. It wasn’t as long as the first time, but it was just as sweet. Neither
of us woke with the morning sunlight. We were too lost in the memory of each other
soothing our dreams, keeping us floating in a restful repose.

When it was nearly noon, his phone rang, and we both woke, groaned at the interruption,
and struggled to get up the energy and desire to rise. I turned over first while he
talked. I didn’t want to listen, but I could hear from his monosyllabic answers that
he was talking to someone he didn’t want to know about my presence.

“Yes,” he finished. “I’ll be there tonight. Yes, I’m looking forward to seeing you,
too.”

I heard him hang up, and then I turned to him. “You don’t have to say anything,” I
said. “Just take me back.”

“After breakfast, please. I’ll call down and have it ready for us.”

I hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not? I’ll take a quick shower, then.”

“So will I,” he told me, smiling. “I’ll wash your back if you wash mine.”

“All right, but don’t get too used to it,” I told him. “I don’t think it’s something
you’ll experience too much.”

He nodded. “Neither do I,” he said.

I’d been half hoping he would disagree, but Mrs. Brittany’s warnings sounded true
and strong.

I just had to learn how to not care after I had convinced myself that I should.

I didn’t see Paul for nearly a week afterward. He called once during that time to
apologize for not being able to take me out on the family yacht. He described the
various things he had to do. I read between the lines and understood that he was involved
with his family and especially his future fiancée. Mrs. Brittany’s words continued
to haunt me. To her way of thinking, he would never be able to marry me, or even want
to, but he wasn’t above offering to keep me.

I suppose most people would wonder why that would continue to bother me even after
I had convinced myself that it wouldn’t. Here I was, training to be an escort for
wealthy and powerful men, even women. What was the difference?

I guess, as hard as it would be for anyone to believe, especially my father, I saw
my work with and for Mrs. Brittany as something that would give me respect and, most
important, give me independence. To me, a kept woman was a plaything, something held
on ice for whenever her patronizing lover had the time, inclination, or freedom to
call for her. Even though I
might have the same sort of worldly things, I wouldn’t have an iota of self-respect.
No, I thought, if Paul actually offered me such a relationship now, even after our
time together, I would turn him down soundly. The longer I didn’t see him, the more
resolved I was about it.

Norbert stepped in and was there to escort me everywhere in the interim. The first
thing we did, as he had first promised, was go to lunch up in Èze village. It was
like being on the top of the world. He was right about the breathtaking views, the
picturesque village with its cobblestone walkways and unique shops. We had pizza at
a small restaurant and watched the parade of tourists from all over Europe, Asia,
the U.K., and America stream by, some with guides rattling off details and information
that seemed to float past them as their eyes went everywhere else.

I could sense that he wanted to talk about Paul but was hesitant. I pushed a little,
since my curiosity was quite strong now, and he finally opened up.

“Paul has always had trouble being his own person. His father determined what would
be his interests, who would be his friends in school, and, of course, who would be
his fiancée. I keep waiting for him to cut that umbilical cord, which in this case
is attached not to his mother but to his father. But don’t misunderstand me. I love
the guy and would do anything for him. He’s essentially the brother I never had,”
Norbert told me.

“And how do you get along with Paul’s father?” I asked. “Does he approve of the friendship?”

“Yes,” Norbert said, smiling. “I know what you’re implying, but with my love life
the way it is, his father felt Paul was in safer company.”

“Safer?”

“I wouldn’t be introducing him to female barracudas who might pounce on his wealth.”

“You introduced him to me.”

He laughed. “You’re a sunfish, Roxy, not a barracuda. At least, not yet.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Perhaps,” he said. He had a wry smile. “I’d be glad to know that I underestimated
you.”

“Glad? I see. You half wish I
would
get between him and his father, don’t you? That’s why you brought him around.”

“
Moi?
” he said, feigning innocence. “Heaven forbid.”

“Do you really think there’s any chance of that?”

He shrugged. “You’re a remarkable young lady. He has to be very impressed with you.
I know I am.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him what he really knew about me. How much did
he know about Mrs. Brittany’s company? Wouldn’t he risk angering her if he was instrumental
in ruining one of her girls by getting her good and married or involved with someone
like Paul who might tempt her away? Look at how much she had already invested in me.
I’m sure she would not be too happy with her godson if she knew that. I thought it
best not to bring any of this up, however. It would, in fact, violate one of the stipulations
of the agreement I had signed. A Brittany girl
never talked with an outsider about the company, nor was I ever to mention what training
I had undergone at Mrs. Brittany’s Long Island estate.

Norbert sensed my hesitation and changed the topic of conversation to other things
and the places I should visit while I was at Mrs. Brittany’s villa. He volunteered
to do as much of it as he could.

Later that week, when Norbert took me to the concert in Monaco, I met his partner,
Caesar Ferrante, a handsome, dark-haired Italian man who was one of the assistant
managers at the world-famous Hermitage Hotel in Monte Carlo. I saw immediately why
Norbert was so fond of him. He had a great, upbeat personality and was just as tuned
in to style and culture. At times, they seemed more like twins.

Afterward, we had a great time together at a club that catered to both gays and straight
couples but favored gays. I danced with both of them and at one point with both of
them at the same time. We were out until nearly three in the morning. I slept well
past noon the next day, and Margery didn’t attempt to wake me. Two days later, Norbert
and Caesar took me to Sanremo, Italy, for lunch and some fun shopping. It was only
an hour’s ride, but they were keeping me so busy with these trips, lunches, and dinners
that I had little time to pine over not seeing Paul.