Her brother stared at her. “What are you doing here?”
“She’s with me.” No charm in Janvier’s expression now, only a cool, deadly intensity that had never been directed at Ashwini. “You aren’t one of the cattle.”
Arvi flinched. “Certainly not. I was called here to provide medical assistance.”
“I wasn’t aware you did house calls,” Ashwini said, her brain running on automatic.
“It was a favor for a friend.” He pinned her with the near black of his eyes. “I’ll expect you for dinner in the next week.”
Ashwini stared after him as he strode past her and down the pathway on that command. She hadn’t seen him for two months, but though the silver in his hair might be a touch more apparent, his face remained unlined. Arvan Taj was a man who’d age into handsome elegance. And his smile? It could devastate; she knew that despite having seen it only once since she was nine.
“He’s the one, isn’t he?” Janvier asked, voice rough and expression dark. “The boy whose photo you carry in your phone, the one who hurt you.”
She realized he’d gotten the wrong idea, but the door filled with another body before she could correct him. The blonde’s stunning blue-green eyes were round with worry until they alighted on Janvier. “Janni!” She leaped into his arms.
Catching her, he chuckled, the grating emotion Ashwini had just heard in his tone no longer in evidence when he said, “Petite Marie May.”
Folding her arms, Ashwini leaned against the wall as the giggling girl tried to kiss Janvier on the mouth. He deflected it as smoothly as he did everything else, taking the kiss on his cheek before setting her down. “What are you doing here, Marie?” he asked with what Ashwini recognized as genuine concern. “Last I saw you, you were set on becoming a star of the silver screen, non?”
Marie beamed, her expression so earnest, it was scary. “I live with Giorgio.” She stroked her hands down her ankle-length gown of cream lace, the bodice modest and the sleeves long. “I serve him.”
“When did this happen?” A soft question. “You are barely out of pigtails.”
Marie’s curls bounced as she slapped Janvier playfully on the chest, clearly not realizing how angry he’d become. “Janni! I’m nineteen next month.” An antique amethyst ring sparkled on her index finger. “Giorgio and I met at the studios—he’s a producer, you know.”
“I see. He plans to share your talent with the world?”
“Not yet.” Marie made a face. “He says I’m too young for the piranha pit and should be twenty-one at least before I start. He got me into the most incredible acting master class, though”—a clap of her hands, the smile back on high beam—“so I’ll be ready when it’s time!”
Not sure what to think of this Giorgio, Ashwini held her silence while Janvier whispered in Marie’s ear, the rich brown strands of his hair sliding to touch the gold of hers. The sight should’ve made Ashwini jealous. It didn’t. Because Janvier’s capacity for loyalty was unrelenting and she had his unspoken promise . . . even though she’d done her hardest to give it back, regardless of her desire to hoard it close.
Smile washing away to a faded watercolor of its previous self, Marie bit down on her lower lip, her mouth a perfect pink bow, and glanced over her shoulder. “I shouldn’t say.” It was a whisper.
“Marie.” Janvier touched his finger to the creamy skin of her cheek, a coaxing smile on his face. “It is a complaint. You know I must investigate.”
Marie glanced over her shoulder again, then gestured him closer after shooting a wary look at Ashwini. “It’s not all of us, just Brooke.” Her nose scrunched up. “She’s been with Giorgio the longest and she was mad because she thought Giorgio was paying more attention to me and Leisel than to her, so she started telling people he was hurting her.”
Taking a breath, Marie continued. “Today she even cut herself! Now that Giorgio’s been so good to her with the doctor and everything, she’s sorry, but the rumors have already started.” The stamp of a small foot under the lace of the dress. “It’s so unfair.”
“I’ll need to talk to Brooke.”
“I’ll get her.” All the fury leaked out of her as quickly as it had built up. “Don’t be angry at her, okay?” Her eyes pleaded with Janvier. “She’s crazy about Giorgio. She thinks . . .”
“What, bébé?” Janvier tucked her hair behind her ear, his voice gentle.
Marie melted.
He was good at that, Ashwini thought, at making women trust him. Funny thing was, he never tried his tricks on her, except in play, both of them fully aware of his motives and desires. Quite unlike the innocent Marie May.
“Brooke thinks she’s getting old,” the girl whispered, blinking back tears. “Even though Giorgio loves her, she doesn’t believe him.”
There it was, one immutable reason why a relationship between a mortal and an immortal could never work long-term. The mortal would inevitably fade, and even if the love survived, it would leave the immortal broken when his lover died. Especially, she thought, her eyes lingering on Janvier, when the immortal was the kind of man who knew how to be loyal.
“Hush.” Janvier bent his legs to bring himself down to Marie’s height. “I will be kind.” He drew the girl into his arms. “You know I do not hurt women.”
A jerky nod, Marie’s throat moving as she drew back. “I’ll go find Brooke.”
“Is it only the three of you who serve as Giorgio’s blood family?”
Shaking her head, Marie said, “Penelope and Laura do, too.”
“Fetch them all, won’t you, Marie.”
“I will. You can wait in the parlor.” Leading them to the room, the girl left in a rush of sweet, floral perfume.
Ashwini and Janvier stood there in silence, tension a taut thread that tied them to one another. The expensive but cold décor—white walls, white sofas overflowing with black cushions, the paintwork on the wall a dripping canvas of darkest red—only intensified the silent, intimate thing that pulsed between them.
As if they had become lovers long ago.
8
When Marie returned, it was with four others: a gorgeous black woman as dewy skinned and soft as Marie, whom Ashwini pegged as Leisel, two leggy brunettes apt to be Penelope and Laura, and a handsome auburn-haired woman in her late twenties with a small bandage on the pale skin of her right cheek. Brooke, unless she was mistaken.