Cristiane Serruya - Trust: A New Beginning

“Dark and macaroons.” He put the decanter and his glass next to hers. She’s beating around the bush. He approached the window, looking outside, but not seeing the park. “But I’d rather you answered my question, Sophia.

“I have answered.”

“No. You. Have. Not.” His voice was icy thin. “Innocent or guilty?”

10.55 p.m.

Sophia stiffened and rose from the floor with the boxes in her hand.

Alistair turned from the window, a stern look on his face. She didn’t face him, but she could see his unhappiness.

She took her time putting the boxes on the square ottoman and picked up her glass, refilling it. He watched as she breathed deep, her ribcage expanding.

She drank a steady gulp. “Whom shall I judge?”

He tipped his head to the side, “Me. Me, myself, and I.”

“Me, myself, and I,” she repeated, in a whisper, straightening to her full height.

Sophia turned and watched his face intently before asking in an austere voice, her forehead creased. She gazed at him in the way she sometimes did, as though she thought she could read him. “How do you plead?” Gone was the playful Sophia.

Fuck. Nobody can read me. Or can she? “You’re the lawyer.” And then he scorned, “The one with the instincts.”

“I have to hear the client first. I cannot judge before a fair hearing. State your plea and your crime, please.”

How does she change her mood so fast? “Too many sins and most of the seven capital vices,” he answered quickly without doubt.

“Too general,” she riposted in a calm way, but promptly. “Pray continue.”

I shouldn’t have started this. “Debauchery, perversion, anger, hate, selfishness, murder, indifference, and detachment. And, of the seven vices: lust, wrath, pride, and envy.” He tried to shock her. “In that order, since December 1999.”

She just raised an eyebrow in disdain. “Innocent or guilty?” I know exactly what you’re looking for, Alistair Connor. But I’m not game for condemning someone without a cause. I know quite well the rules of this game. Life has taught me well.

“Of my own sins? Guilty. Of course,” he scoffed.

“Who pressed charges?”

He stood there looking at her cold and analytic face. She’s still evading. Oh, come on, Conselor Leibowitz, stop this. Condemn me, once and for all.

“I’m waiting.” She tapped her foot on the rug, aggravated. “Who pressed charges?”

“Me, myself, and I.”

“Me, myself, and I,” she mused, frowning, evaluating his eyes, face and body language searching for something more. How can you press changes against yourself, Alistair Connor? Because of your own sins? She turned her back to him and pinched the bridge of her nose. He’s lying. There’s more to this. What is he hiding? His guilt isn’t caused by something he did. He’s probably guilty by omission. But she wouldn’t deny him the right of lying, even to himself. Nodding, she inquired further. “Any evidence? Proof?”

A fight. A destroyed car. Blood everywhere. Two dead bodies. “Photos,” he answered brusquely.

“No documents? Testimonies? Fingerprints?”

“Nothing conclusive.” He stood still as a statue and watched her pace the room.

“Photos can be forged, manipulated,” she mused. “And the jury sees what the lawyer wants them to see.”

“Sorry, no escape. The photos weren’t forged.” His deep voice sounded angry and sad at the same time. “Guilty as charged.”

A piece is missing from this puzzle. She finished the wine, placing the glass on the other side table and paced some more. “Just photos.” she voiced her thoughts.

Then she whirled around - suddenly, violently - and her dress swirled around her, the Japanese hair stick dropped to the ground and her hair tumbled down.

She left her hair down and concentrated on her actions. “Who or what was in the photos?” A dark look came over her features.

“The scene of the crime. Blood. Dead bodies.”

Dead bodies. She paled but recovered quickly. Two can play this game, Lord Me-myself-and-I. A very sinister smile started to form on her mouth, twisting her lips.

Fuck! The Avenging Angel. The same look she had at Galewick Hall. He could almost see her growing taller, sprouting wings, and yielding a fiery sword, ready to pierce his black heart guilty of Nathalie’s death.

“Please, think hard before you answer this question. Was my client there? Or had he been there at any moment?”

Was I there? “No. I don’t think so.”

“Ha! You don’t think so! So, you’re not sure!”

His head dropped a bit, his eyes glazed. The memories of his little blonde angel all battered and bruised flooded his brain. “No, but-”

She raised her hand, stopping him, demanding silence. “This was not a question. It was a conclusion.” His head came up abruptly. “The prosecution has no proof that the defendant was, or had been, at the scene of the crime.” Indeed. It’s something he didn’t do. Guilt by omission. The dark smile broadened and her eyes flashed a golden honey color as she counted her conclusions on her fingers, “Firstly, Me-myself-and-I is the one pressing charges. Secondly, Me-myself-and-I is the defendant, who had never been at the scene of the crime. Thirdly, there is no evidence, other than the photos of the crime scene. So I ask you my last question: Is there any proof that my client has ever committed these sins? These unproven sins?”

His eyes widened. She’s destroyed my case. And she’s enjoying every minute of it.

“No answer?” She pressed.

Are my sins unprovable? It seems so. He shook his head, stupefied, and incapable of answering. Her verdict pending over his head as the sword of Damocles. Are they pardonable? No. Never.

She stabbed a finger hard on his chest, like a dagger. “Therefore, this lawyer is pleading innocent in the name of Me-myself-and-I,” she glared at him, pinning him under her angry stare, “or rather in your name, Alistair Connor.”

How dare she? How dare she absolve me? The fear that her absolution could destroy the detachment he had achieved so far, erupted in him a need to destroy the woman who had so trustily absolved him. Alistair’s arms encompassed her waist swiftly, hauling her body flush with his. His hand fisted and twirled her hair tightly as his mouth crushed hers.

The unpredicted and violent assault startled Sophia. Her hands gripped his arms to steady herself as his tongue pursued and forcefully demanded an entrance. She allowed it and moaned when he invaded her mouth. He slanted her head with a rough tug on her hair to have better access to her mouth.

Sophia stiffened and gasped at the sharp pain and her hand flew up. Her slender fingers wrapped around his wrist and surprised Alistair, causing him to loosen his hold on her hair. Immediately she relaxed into his embrace.

Breathe. Control yourself. She’s not Heather, Alistair Connor. He lifted his head to look at her. Her head was pulled back in his grip and her lips were dark red from his kisses. “You don’t like?” he murmured.

“What?” She opened her yellow diamond eyes.

His head bent to the hollow of her neck and he bit her playfully there. “A touch of pain, of violence.” Here it goes. Slowly, Alistair Connor, slowly.

Pain, violence? “I-I don’t know,” she stammered. “I’ve never thought about them as sensual or erotic.” What the hell? Why am I not answering no?

“It can be,” he whispered, his voice tickling her ear. He suckled her earlobe, sinking his teeth in the soft flesh.

She moaned and his hand on the small of her back pressed her on his body as he ground his erection on her belly.

“See?” His husky voice and accent betrayed his arousal. “Do you want to try?”

“You like that?” Her hands pulled his head up to look at his forest-green eyes. They burned her with pure carnal lust and his grip on her hair tightened. “Pain, violence?” she gasped. “What kind?”

“I’ll be gentle. I promise.” His own words penetrated the fog of rage that had installed in his mind. “Let me show you what I can do to your body,” he murmured, “to your soul.”

Oh. She could not answer. Dared not. What now? She felt paralyzed by fear and dread. And arousal. How?

“Come on, it’s just role-play,” he coached, quietly. “And you can always stop it.”

“I-” she breathed deep. I don’t know.

“Please,” he crooned and vowed, “I won’t hurt you. It’s all about pleasure.” His lips curled. And he bent his head, his nose brushed hers in a gentle caress and he spoke against her lips. “Do you trust me?”

“This is not fair,” she said slowly.

“Not fair?” His face fell and disappointment flashed. “No, I guess it isn’t.” His hands dropped away from her and he stepped back as if he had been slapped. Of course, it isn’t. You want to hurt the only woman that has absolved you so unhesitatingly. But then, you don’t want absolution, do you? Do you, Alistair Connor?

Sophia observed his face, as an uncommon kaleidoscope of emotions played on it.

He stepped back again.

“Wait!” Her hand shot out to grab his arm, holding him in place. “Wait.” She stared intently into his eyes. “I told you that I trust you. And I do,” she whispered the last few words.

“Are you sure?” He cocked his head

“Yes,” she breathed, “yes, I am.”

He could barely hear her low assent.

“Sophia,” he murmured and closed the distance between them, burying his head in her hair and inhaling deeply. His fingers untied the sash at her waist and nudged the dress off her shoulders, dropping a light kiss on one, then the other. The dress pooled on the floor at her feet.