“I spent another five years working and learning, riding the shadows and building my reputation,” Elie continued. “I built my reputation with women as well. I preferred models. Tall. Elegant. Long legs. Hot as hell.”
She’d seen the photographs. He’d been all over the magazines, escorting the top runway models in Paris. He’d broken hearts—a lot of hearts.
“I was called into Jean-Claude Archambault’s private home for a formal meeting. He was a member of the council. I was told it was time I settled down. There was a girl. A girl, Emme, eighteen fucking years old. A rider who couldn’t cut it. He actually said that. Too soft. But good genes. The best genes for producing riders. Good family. A virgin. He said that, too. He named her. Brielle Couture.” His voice softened when he said her name.
Elie raked both hands through his hair, shaking his head as if he could somehow stop his thoughts. Take back his history. “I was so damn sick of Jean-Claude and all the rest of the Archambaults running my life. Dictating to me what I could and couldn’t do. They’d been making noises for some time that I’d better stop running through so many models so fast. They’d heard of the nights that I spent in the sex clubs, and they didn’t approve. They wanted it stopped.”
Emmanuelle could believe it. The paparazzi were relentless when it came to wealthy bachelors and scandal. Anyone with Elie’s looks, his money, his penchant for famous models and sex clubs would definitely attract attention.
“They knew my tastes ran pretty dark when it came to sex, but they were going to throw some little girl at me that didn’t know what the hell she was getting into just to prove to me that they were the ones in control of my life. They didn’t like what I was doing, but it didn’t stop them from giving me more rotations than any other rider in Paris, or having me train with younger riders to try to bring them up to skill levels they couldn’t possibly achieve. For Jean-Claude to dictate to me, tell me I had to marry this child who couldn’t possibly handle my brand of sex, was the last straw. I wasn’t having it. I told him off. The problem was, when I told him off, I told him off in entirely the wrong way.”
Berta was back with two Italian sodas and the ice cream they both loved. She put it on the table between them and hurried away to serve the next customers.
Emmanuelle found herself tense, only because Elie was. Whatever had transpired in that house had been bad. It was there on Elie’s face, pressed into the lines that rarely showed.
He picked up a fork and dug at the very outer edge of the ice cream treat, keeping his eyes on the plate in front of them. “I told Jean-Claude that he was out of his fucking mind if he thought he was going to saddle me with a little child that didn’t know the first thing about sex and would faint at the things I’d demand of her. I told him her breasts and hips were too big and once she had a kid, she’d be a cow for certain, that she was well on her way in that department already. I pointed out that I wasn’t in the least attracted to her and what did he want me to do, close my eyes the entire time I fucked her? I ended rather triumphantly, telling him to go fuck himself, that I was done with him telling me what to do, and I stalked out—right out into his sitting room. Where little miss eighteen-year-old virgin Brielle Couture sat with her hands folded in her lap and her face so white it looked like I’d slapped her. She’d heard every single word.”
“Elie,” Emmanuelle whispered.
“I accidentally stepped into a shadow tube that connected with hers. The jolt was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I knew then what a mistake I’d made, not just in hurting her, because I felt that right down to my bones, but because I knew she was the one meant for me. I tried to backtrack, but there was no way to do that.”
“Eighteen is so young, Elie. She wouldn’t have any confidence in herself, especially if she couldn’t make it as a rider, either. And to hear your evaluation of her as a woman, that would humiliate her beyond all comprehension. No, there would be no way to back out of that one.” Emmanuelle felt terrible for him and for the unknown Brielle. “What did you do?”
“I apologized to her. I told her I was talking out of my ass because I was so angry at Jean-Claude, which was the truth and I hoped she heard that, but I could tell she didn’t. She didn’t even look at me. She just nodded her head, said it was all right, that she understood, and she left. She didn’t run. She walked. Head up. She was actually quite magnificent. I wrote to her several times. My letters came back unopened. I went to her apartment, but she refused to answer the door. I thought about just going in, but that would be wrong, so in the end, I followed my mother to the United States. She was just as tired of the Archambaults telling her what to do as I was.”
There was something in Elie’s voice that alerted her. “What happened with your mother, Elie?”
“Turns out, she wasn’t all that thrilled to see me, either, Emme. She said I looked too much like my father. She didn’t really know me. It was nice to have dinner occasionally, but seeing me every day was just a little too much. It was easier for everyone to think my mother and I have this great relationship and that I came here to be with her after my father died, so I let all of you think that.”
“I can understand, and actually, in a way it’s the truth. The timeline is a little off. Your mother didn’t come here right after your father died, did she?”
He shook his head. “When I realized she didn’t need me hanging around, and I needed action, I joined the military. You know the rest. While I was in the military, I continued to ride shadows because I couldn’t resist them and to stay in practice. I was careful never to get caught. When I came to Chicago, I was going to end my riding career and be a bodyguard, but I guess once it’s in your blood, you can’t just let it go.”
“And you’re needed, Elie,” Emme reminded gently.
He nodded. There was no denying that fact. There weren’t enough riders. There never would be. “We’re back to needing those babies, aren’t we, Emme? The ones we can’t really have together. Are you going to tell me how you managed to fuck up your life? I can’t imagine that you called your man a cow. And how I ever even came up with such a demeaning term for a woman who looks as beautiful as Brielle, I’ll never know. She isn’t a tall, elegant model, and she actually has breasts and hips, but fuck, Emme, what I did to that woman. I hurt her beyond any imagination.” He scrubbed his hand over his face as if he could wipe away the memory.
Emmanuelle studied his expression for a long time, and then she sighed. She had to give him something. “I just chose the wrong man. You saw him dozens of times, Elie.”
He lifted his head and looked at her. “Valentino Saldi is not a rider, Emme. Ferraros fall in love once, same as Archambaults. Saldi couldn’t compromise your shadow.”
She took a sip of her Italian soda, her gaze darting around to the tables closest to them, landing specifically on the one where their bodyguards ate pizza and drank coffee. “I tried to talk to my brothers about this more than once when I was a kid, but they wouldn’t listen to me, Elie.”
She lowered her voice to the point that he would have to hitch forward. If he really wanted to hear what she had to say, she wasn’t taking any chances. Elie, to his credit, leaned toward her, even though he did take a rather large forkful of ice cream.