The Boss (Chateau #3) - Penelope Sky Page 0,60

to look at me, his pen in his hand.

“I mean, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

His gaze remained stoic as he turned back to his notebook. “This moment? No. But I’ve had relationships on and off for the last few years. Sometimes serious. Sometimes not. When things are good, it does help my situation with Fender, but there’s nothing that will ever truly make those feelings go away.” He cleared his throat. “I trust that you won’t share these things with him.”

“Never.”

He made some notes with his pen, writing out some common words. “Were you the one who figured it out…or was it him?”

I wanted to lie and spare his feelings, but I didn’t. “I told him when I noticed, but he said he’s known for years.”

He inhaled a deep breath, and his pen steadied. After he recovered from the embarrassment, he continued to write.

“Have you considered leaving?”

He finished his notes then clicked the top of the pen. “I could never leave him. No one could ever run his life the way I do.”

“I’m sure. But you have to think of yourself, Gilbert.”

He gave a subtle shake of his head. “I would be miserable working for someone else besides him. With my other employers, there wasn’t the same level of satisfaction.”

“Are you ever…scared? You know, because of what he does?”

He shook his head again. “Fender is the most dangerous man in France. That also makes him the safest.”

Whenever I looked out my bedroom windows, I could see the armed men near the gate, ready for the unexpected. At first, it was daunting, but I was getting more used to it now. Just as I got used to the faceless guards at the camp.

“Here’s the basics. That way, you can at least greet people Fender introduces you to.” He handed me the notebook. I read through the list, trying to pronounce each one, but I’d never practiced French.

“Americans butcher the French language.” He released an annoyed sigh and helped me with each syllable, the pronunciation of each word. It was hard to look at a letter I’ve stared at my entire life but say it differently.

Together in front of the fire, we practiced.

When I grasped it as well as I could, he took the notebook back. “And what does Fender say to you?” He grabbed his pen so he could write it out.

“Um…” I tried to remember. When he spoke French to me, it was difficult to focus on the actual words because everything else drew my attention, like the look in his eyes, the deepness of his voice, what he was doing to my body with his. “Tu es mon… Something like that.”

He wrote it down in his notebook. “You’re mine.”

The flush crept into my cheeks when I pictured Fender saying that to me, rattling the headboard as he proved that physically.

Gilbert had no reaction, keeping his feelings held inside like an uncorked bottle.

“Tu es… moi… à moi… I’m not sure. He said the words a couple times.”

“Mine.” He wrote it down.

“Oh…” So, everything he said was romantic. It wasn’t dirty talk like I assumed. “Tu es vra… magnifico? I’m sorry, I’m probably not even close on that one.”

Gilbert only needed a couple seconds to figure it out. His pen went to the page, and he wrote it out. “Tu es vraiment magnifique. You’re fucking beautiful.”

Like a movie in my head, I could picture him saying that to me, his hand around my throat, one arm behind my knee. The look in his eyes matched his words. His affection matched his aggression.

“I want you to memorize this and say it to him.” Gilbert added another line to the notebook. “Mon homme m’a manqué. Emmène-moi au lit. When he comes home, that should be the first thing you say to him.”

“What does it mean?”

“Roughly translated, it means, ‘I missed my man, and now take me to bed.’”

Yeah, he would love it if I said that.

He closed the notebook and set it on the coffee table. “If my instruction isn’t enough, we can have a professional come to the house. While English is a second language to most of the French, you will integrate into Parisian society much easier if you’re fluent. Just because we speak English doesn’t mean we want to. French is a much more beautiful language. You’ll see.”

A week had come and gone, and Fender didn’t return.

I had no idea when he would.

I put on a purple long-sleeved