She heard the soft sounds of metal against metal. Not an ugly, vicious sound, but more melodic and fine.
Then, in a rush, the scent of rich butter and parsley filled her nose and she heard Braze speak.
“Open your mouth for me.”
She did and felt something warm pass between her lips. The rich flavors slipped down upon her tongue and she tasted a gentle hint of garlic, too. And as Braze withdrew the fork from between her lips, Sara found a tender morsel of meat in her mouth. She kept her eyes closed as she chewed it slowly, but its flavor was too delicate, too different for her to distinguish just what it was.
“You can open your eyes now,” she heard him whisper.
She did and discovered that before her was a small platter of what she first took for small stones. Except that they smelled positively divine.
“Des escargots de bourgogne au beurre persillé, he announced, then went on to say, “French snails from Bourgogne with butter, shallots and parsley.
“They are probably not the best accompaniment for the wine, but I do love them so.”
Snails. In any other circumstance, the idea of it would have been revolting to Sara. But there, in an old castle next to a fireplace, with the man of whom she had dreamed for months on end, the taste of it was heavenly.
And behind it all, she could hear his words echoing in her mind, every bit as delicious as the escargot.
Open your mouth for me.
Sara hoped he would not ask her what she was thinking of right then. Her honesty would have spoken of nothing to do with French snails and everything to do with what she wanted this gorgeous man to do next to her.
“Besides, as aromatic as it is, this is a dish best eaten by both halves of a couple. Otherwise, one of us might find the other...unpalatable.”
She looked up at him to see him studying her, his head tipped slightly to one side. Strangely, his demeanor was somehow canine and quizzical at once.
“Did you just make a joke?” she asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Mmmm...more of an effort at etiquette, Sara,” he replied, while smiling in return.
“I was taught that no matter how famished one might be, it is only proper to await the lady’s pleasure and not drink until she does, nor eat until she does.
“But, I must admit that my hunger is near to overwhelming my better judgement,” he said as he bent down to her.
She felt the soft rasp of a light beard against her cheek as he nuzzled in to her neck. Then, he murmured, “I am starving...”
Moist, warm lips brushed against her own. Ever so lightly, she felt his touch, then it was gone again.
“...for you.”
He came at her hard then, all subtlety cast aside, and Sara did not flinch away. Rather, she answered with a heat that had been building like the very fire that burned so near.
Their tongues danced upon each other as she felt his hand in her hair. His fingers were powerful, yet he only cradled her head as the kiss lingered.
He pulled back from her, his eyes as focused as ever on her own. She read in them a driving desire but also the will to do things in their proper time. His need for her bordered on violence while his self mastery was absolute.
They dined then. It was a simple repast of salad and thinly sliced duck breast. There was some of the most extraordinary bread that Sara had ever tasted, to be followed by a platter of assorted cheeses.
Braze drew her attention to one in particular, saying that it was a local cheese, naming it un brébis d’Aramits, or sheep’s cheese from the village of Aramits. It was typical of the region where the animals were pastured in wild meadows upon the slopes of the Pyrénées mountains as has been done, essentially unchanged to this day, for thousands of years.
The flavor of it was wonderful, then he told her that she had already heard of it.
“Oh? And how is that?” she asked.
“The character of Aramis, from Dumas’ book, the Three Musketeers, was inspired by a real man. His name was Henri d’Aramits and was born in the village of the same name. The others, Isaac de Porthau, who became Porthos, and Armand d’Athos, or Athos, were his cousins and all three were real musketeers in the seventeenth century.”
Sara took another bite of the white cheese, thinking that it reminded her of a very good pecorino, said, “So, in a way, it’s like tasting part of France’s history.”
Braze nodded and replied, “Yes. It is exactly like that.”
Black, local grapes with an astonishing flavor followed for dessert accompanied by flutes of champagne.
Then, together, they moved their chairs to face the fire and it was not by chance that they were close enough to touch.
Braze leaned forward, studying the flames, and placed his elbows on his thighs. Sara marveled at how broad his back was and could just barely make out the dark tattooing through his white shirt. She remembered the promise that she had made to herself while high up in Abraxis Industries headquarters. She had told herself that she would learn every contour of this man’s body and taste for herself the darkness emblazoned upon his skin.
“I asked you what you saw in me, Sara...” he said suddenly and she felt a chill because it was as if he read her thoughts, “...and that was before you knew my name.
“Now that you know I am an Abraxis, tell me what else you know.”
Sara sighed. Thoughts of a strange interview and money from the 1920’s flickered by, but instead, she said, “Not very much, really. I’ve seen you mentioned once in a while on the evening news, but that’s about it.”
There was only silence to answer her. Sara knew she had so much more to learn about the man at her side, but she had come to understand that he was waiting for her to continue.
“I saw part of a documentary, once. It was something to do with your father when he passed away. Then they talked about you in a follow-up piece once you took the business over and how the company’s revenues had risen under your direction.”
“Go on,” he murmured.
“Ummm, they said that you are a sort of golden boy, but one who makes a habit of staying out of sight. Something about a Midas touch and that you read the markets as if you have a crystal ball. That everyone is watching what you buy next.
“That you haven’t made a mistake, yet.”
He took a drink from his champagne, then appeared to consider the remaining bubbles within the flute.
“Anything else?” His voice was calm...cold even.
Sara did not want to say anymore. She could feel a distance widening between them with each word that passed her lips. But, his demand was clear and she had no choice.
“They call you the ‘stealth billionaire’. Like one of those black military planes. And, they said there are rumors that Abraxis Industries is just the tip of the iceberg. The reporter in the documentary said that the business goes as far as the White House and the Defense Department....”
She trailed off. Suddenly it felt like she had gone too far.
Sara watched as he stood up and walked away from her to stand just at the fireplace’s edge. It should have been too hot to bear, yet he did not move with his back turned to her, and Sara expected that at any moment his clothing would begin to smoke.
“They speak of the business and of my father. And they are right. That is what I am.”
His words felt heavy in the air as she heard them. They had a tone of...finality.
“All that I am...alone in the shadow of a great man. I simply carry on in his name.”
Braze turned back to her, but Sara could not see the look on his face. The flames behind him blotted everything out and the image she saw was terrifying. A silhouette with flames all around him, as if she saw a man in his own, personal hell.
“I don’t believe that,” Sara said. “You have good people all around you. People like Flair....”
One step toward her, then he said, “The people around me are obliged to be there. They are there because of duty, not because of confidence or trust.
“At least, not real trust, but only trusting in that I will do what my father would have wished. That the business will flourish while I continue to make no mistakes.”
Another step toward her.
“Why do you suppose that is, Sara? How can I make the right decision...each...and every...time?”
His words were measured, strained even. He was frightening her and she had no idea why as she watched him lift a hand to his shirt and undo a single button.
The white fabric felt open only slightly and for a brief second Sara could have sworn that she saw a serpentine curl of his dark tattoo move.
No, it’s just a trick of the light, that’s all. Shadows cast by the fireplace.
“You see...I walk in his shadow,” Braze said, then undid another button, revealing ever more of himself to her.
“I would like to find someone I can trust...completely, without reservation. And not because they are obliged to, but because it comes from the heart.”
He was whispering as he said it, almost as if was not meant for her ears.
Then, in that strange way of his, he changed the subject, except that Sara felt that somehow he kept talking of exactly the same thing.
“As I mentioned earlier, my family hails from the Gévaudan, although it is no longer called that. I think the people of that region wish to put the name behind them because it conjures up memories of a story too foul, too dark to be believed.
“Except that it is a matter of public record. In the years just before America proclaimed its independence, there were over 200 people mauled by a crazed beast in the Gévaudan. More than half of its victims were killed outright, and most of the dead had been at least partially eaten.”