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"Tell me," she said, accent dark and thick, slurred with lust. "Tell me the story." Her fingers, smoothing over her bare shoulders, were relentless. She lingered for a second, ignoring Francesca's ragged breathing before she shifted, pebbling the nipple in her fingers, rolling it between her fingertips, with a sudden rough, hard pinch that forced a moan from Francesca's lips. "Tell me if you loved her."
--
Francesca had always adored Europe, ever since she was a child.
Then, she was free to roam, discover the secrets of the cobblestone paths, stare without intrusion at the beautiful women. She had been a gifted child, and her mother gave her whatever she wanted. Francesca always knew what she wanted.
Things didn't change, even as an adult. She wanted women, and damn her mother if she couldn't have them. Of course her mother supported the 'problem' by believing it didn't exist, and that was just fine with Francesca. She had her trust, she had her talent, and just like everything else in her life, she was good at what she did. She got what she wanted.
Naturally there were hiccups along the way, but Francesca believed in perfection, and there was never perfection without flaws.
On this particular morning, she had been in a rather foul mood. She had the misfortune to be surrounded by idiots, and as such, she was behind, over-budget, and the director had had the audacity to blame it on her. The café she visited usually was not crowded, she hated crowded, but today, thanks to some absurd wedding party that didn't have the common sense to use a hotel, she had been forced into a corner. Too rushed to even care, it was the least of her worries that the coffee was five minutes overdue. The incompetent staff, however, had no reason to know that.
"It's late," she snapped, when the boy with the olive skin and dark mop of hair set it in front of her.
"My apologies," he said uncaringly, broken English so bad, she just rolled her eyes, and answered in Italian.
"I'm on a limited time frame," she said, ignoring his surprised widening of eyes. "Just make sure my salad doesn't take as long."
With that, she waved him off, eyes on her laptop, clicking away. He just stood there.
She waited, ready to ask him to leave when she caught the expression on his face.
It was intriguing to say the least, the way the eyes widened, then narrowed, how the mouth parted and his face flashed with something that was similar to fear, then something not quite, all directed at the doorway.
Francesca was not a nosy person, but she was a curious one, and because of that, she glanced that way too, to find nothing particularly special about the woman who stood in the doorway.
The older woman, with short cropped hair and a rigid posture, had piercing eyes. She wore expensive clothes, but they were plain, Francesca could not determine the designer. She was probably pretty once, could still be beautiful if she smiled.
She wasn't smiling.
The boy muttered a curse that Francesca wouldn't repeat, before he ran straight to the other side of the café, disrupting trays and spilling coffee.
The woman caught the commotion, following after him with a small, odd smile on her face.
Francesca frowned, glancing back to the doorway as a more beautiful woman, stunning really, crossed her arms, as if assessing the situation. She looked displeased, taking a moment to smooth her hair behind her ear, and with an arched brow and irritated stare, she called out a name, Katya, and followed, disappearing into the hallway in the back of the cafe.
There was a taste of danger in the air, and unlike the wedding party, who stood and fled the café as if for their very lives, Francesca kept her place, eyes roving from the hallway to the entrance, where a third woman stood, eyes on the floor, a curtain of black hair falling into her face, obstructing her features.
This one was noticeably younger, and Francesca couldn't deny her sudden instinctive interest, studying the slender frame in the wrap around skirt and the tiny tank top, arms sculpted with athletic muscle.
There didn't seem much to fear about her, but the guests cowered when they passed. One even flinched, crossing himself as the place emptied.
Francesca was smart, she understood the unspoken rule. She knew a dangerous situation when she saw it. This part of Rome was not the friendliest to tourists, in part it was why she liked it.
Guess there would be no salad after all.
She closed her laptop, kept her eyes on her designs, completely aware that the movement would catch the other woman's attention. Her memory of the pleasing body and regal air made her curious. She wanted to see her face.
Francesca had never been one to throw away a game of chicken.
She lifted her chin, locked her stare with the burning darkness of the woman.
It couldn't have been longer than a second, two.
She was young. She couldn't have been older than twenty-two. Dark hair, dark features, exotic even in this country, a natural beauty that didn't quite fit, even in Italy.
Her eyes seared her. Dark, bottomless, an abyss of pain, glossed over with glass.
A beautiful tragedy.
"You need to go." The woman's words broke the stillness, but Francesca didn't move. She processed the words, felt them glide over her tongue, as if the girl herself had kissed them into her mouth.
Francesca straightened from her desk and shouldered her bag, never taking her eyes off the beautiful young child with the sad eyes.
She was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
A shout of pain from the back snared the attentions of both, and the girl once again stared at her, unapologetic and intrusive. "Leave. You don't want to meet them."
Francesca considered, before her lips pulled into a small, sultry smirk and she gathered her laptop, one foot in front of the other, taking her closer and closer to the beautiful woman with the sad eyes.
A foot away, and the stare had not been broken. She could look now, at the beautiful perfection - unique beauty made haunting with tragedy. A glare that could cut glass.
Another cry of pain cut through the air; moans followed.
And all she wanted to do was press her lips against that girl's, taste her tragedy and drown her in lust.
It was disconcerting, the urge to lose control. With a nod, she broke the stare. She felt her focus as she kept moving, her energy as her arm brushed against hers.
She left her in that café, away from the dark eyes and the shouts of pain, but her scent lingered, as did her image. Her eyes.
Never had a woman stayed with her the way the child had.
For the first time in her life, Francesca felt regret.
She had not even gotten her name.
--
Lauren Reed left her with a bruised neck, lingering threats - the image of a woman with sparkling eyes, and blonde, silky hair.
She would not be broken. In this trap, Francesca told herself she would not be forced.
She even made herself believe that Lauren was nothing to be concerned about. Lauren dealt with her own consequences and choices, but Francesca was good with denial. It came from her mother.
Her nightmares betrayed her - emotions rushed to the surface, and ten years of events fluttered around her, drowning her in her sins - her one act of humanity, her rescue of Marina, that she had used for ten years of salvation.
In her dreams she buried herself in Marina's arms, tasting her, consuming her, like she did the first time.
Francesca remembered a world buried in tragedy, bloodied with pain and deceit. She detested lies.
She detested fear.
But it drove her, forced her to seal her heart and pick up the phone. When she heard Marina's voice, it was easy to hate her. Her thanks for bringing about Marina's freedom was entrapment, and the hate so easily buried her wounded heart, that shuddered when she heard her lover's voice.
She didn't let her speak, kept her voice callous and cruel, as she laid out her rules, her laws, for extracting Marina out of her life.
"Oh," she had said, as if it were an afterthought. "I wouldn't be in my house when I come back. In fact, I wouldn't be in Los Angeles at all. I can make things difficult for you, Marina. You wouldn't want to stick around."
It was the most she would do. In her head, it absolved her from responsibility. She would not die for her.
Marina's best defense was to leave her, leave the world she had helped her create - go back to her world of lies and deception.
They had gotten too comfortable. And this was Marina's price.
Francesca would not pay it for her.
--
"Did you think I wouldn't come?" she said, a laugh behind her voice, taking in Francesca's face. "I've been looking forward to this."
She wore different clothes - obviously happier in this persona than in the one she presented before. Blonde hair long, curling over her shoulders in a sculpted wave, make-up considerably darker.
This was Lauren Reed; the woman Francesca had seen behind the glasses and overly conservative suits.
It didn't surprise her. In fact, she chided herself, she was an idiot for thinking anything different.
"Tell me," she said, ignoring her pounding heart. "How exactly do you think this will work?"
Lauren paused, the smile that looked so natural a minute before now frozen in a plastic farce. "I should think it would be obvious," Lauren said, flint in her tone, smile just as wide. "I prefer to think of this as a vacation, really," she began, putting down her briefcase on one of Drew's shirts, snapping at the clasps on the side. "My work can be somewhat stressful and truthfully, Francesca - I like you quite a bit." She smiled. "Think of it as an intimate affair. You get what you want, I get what I want, in the form of a bedroom confidence."
Francesca's throat remained curiously closed, as Lauren removed her blazer, black of course, dropping it next to her case and reaching inside.
"What if I don't want anything you can give me?" she asked, a moment of defense that was utterly stupid. Francesca rarely lost control, but her anger took the better of her, and she immediately regretted it, as Lauren quirked an eyebrow and smiled, resting her hip against her table.
"First rule of all of this," she said, pulling a black revolver out of the case, smile wide as it had ever been. "Don't ever lie to me. You may think you hate me, Francesca, but the truth is, I like sex as much as you do, and I'm being more than generous. Would you rather it be someone else?"
The implicit threat did its work. Francesca would not pay Marina's debts, not anymore. She ignored the thumping hollow in her heart, kept her eyes on the fabric draped over her fingers.
She froze, when she felt the cold metal of the gun against her throat, smelled the soft lilac of the woman as she pressed into her, fingers painfully tight over her wrist, stilling her movements.
"Don't lie to me," Lauren said, voice cold, breath hot against her skin. "Don't you ever lie to me. I detest lies."
Francesca could not answer, as she let out a ragged sigh, craning her neck slightly. Lauren was beautiful, with deep blue eyes, and a narrowed humanity that made Francesca falter. She truly thought she was being merciful - using her this way.
Francesca understood Lauren's world. She had heard Marina speak of it.
She closed the distance between them, ignoring the gun as it pressed dangerously into her skin, and instead opened her mouth against Lauren's. Immediately, the other woman responded, hot and hungry in her kiss, taking what Francesca offered, fingers tangling in the strawberry blonde of Francesca's nape, taking the taller woman down with her powerful force.
Her lust was damning, as she fought her groan, heard the gun clatter to the floor as Lauren fumbled, keeping her mouth moving against hers as she worked with her fingers, pulling at Francesca's belt, forcing her knees apart.
Her head fell back, pounded against the hard floor of her trailer when she felt the hard, lean muscle of Lauren's thigh pressing at her, rubbing as her hips pumped, fingers battling with her pants, her zipper, before they too, slid between her legs.
"Pleasure," she heard, a thick, husky whisper as lips left a streak of red against her mouth, her cheek, sending hot chills when her teeth raked just under her jaw. "Then business."
It was out of control, complete domination, and she didn't do it this way. She didn't do it this way. She didn't do it this-
Lauren jerked at her pants, shoved down harder, and invaded her with a thrust, hard and rough. She cried out, clasped at the woman above her for support as she pumped against her, hard - fast-
--
"Tell me," she said, accent dark and thick, slurred with lust. "Tell me the story." Her fingers, smoothing over her bare shoulders, were relentless. She lingered for a second, ignoring Francesca's ragged breathing before she shifted, pebbling the nipple in her fingers, rolling it between her fingertips, with a sudden rough, hard pinch that forced a moan from Francesca's lips. "Tell me if you loved her."
Francesca lay still, eyes closed as Lauren shifted behind her, breasts pressed against her back, mouth sewn onto her shoulder.
"Tell me," she said again, insistently. "Did you love her?" Her fingers stopped toying with her breasts, preferring to skim under them, until her palm lay flat against her stomach, and Lauren cradled her, lost in a phantom mimic of a lover's embrace.
Francesca's eyes fluttered. "No," she said. "Not at first."
Lauren rested her chin against her cheek, considering. "What changed?"
Francesca stared straight ahead of her, until the mauve of her hotel room wall disappeared and she saw Spain instead.
"Nothing," she said. "I just couldn't let her go."
--
She saw her again three years later, and she remembered her, when she deliberately forgot the name of the woman, she had been with just a week earlier.
Glitzy and glamorous - a party for those fortunate enough to hold themselves as elite.
Security was tight, as it always was, and even Francesca found herself frisked by an over-enthusiastic jerk.
She was there as a favor, for a rampantly gay bitch of a friend who insisted he take a date, as if anyone actually believed he was straight. If she hadn't been paid an ungodly amount of money to do a high profile movie she desperately needed to get on Ethan Hawke's ticket, than she would have said 'fuck you' in a second.
But she was there, in a shimmering black dress that accented the curves of her body, with a glass of champagne in one hand, eyes on the crowd of dignitaries and celebrities as they danced and laughed.
She liked this about Europe - the musical melody of the different languages, where no one spoke just one, unlike her lazy countrymen. It sounded beautiful, and enjoying it, she sipped her champagne, sharp eyes watching the crowd.
If even one of these women seemed remotely interesting, then perhaps it wouldn't be such a lost cause.
The dance was a tango, rough and smooth, and she smiled, entranced by the beauty of the movements, when a flash of a woman in a silver dress caught her, kept the glass hovering just above her lip.
The girl, now a woman, hair piled atop her head, dressed in a shimmering silver gown, on the arm of a rather large, puffy looking diplomat.
Francesca swallowed what was in her mouth, licking her lips slightly as she placed the half-empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter, tracking her movements.
More beautiful than before, if it was possible. She wore minimal make-up, she didn't need it. Her strength was her natural beauty, an element that shoved the hard-caked faces of the other women her age away from her, as if no one could touch her.
The way the men looked at her amused Francesca, the smile on the woman's face, dazzling, she would admit, but off somehow.
It wasn't a natural smile.
Francesca idly wondered what would force a spontaneous burst of laughter across the woman's features.
She didn't avert her stare when a sixth sense alerted the woman to her ogling. The dark eyes shifted, locked against hers, and Francesca let the smirk stay on her lips, kept her place as the woman glanced at her somewhat uncertainly, smile frozen, only half-hearing what her companion was saying now, as Francesca straightened her head, chin up.
The woman broke the moment, moving away, unable to keep from looking behind her before she disappeared into one of the hallways.
Francesca fought her smile, taking a deep breath before taking two glasses of wine from the waiters.
Well. She had a project for the night. It seemed to be years in the making.
--
Francesca waited in the hallway, until the girl passed by, alone, as she knew she would be.
"I know you," she said, English sharp, cutting through the romanticism of the Spanish floating around them. The woman, steps fast and deliberate, faltered, eyes widening in recognition. Francesca offered the second glass. "It's been a few years, hasn't it?"
Her eyes were bewitching. Utterly bewitching. Francesca appreciated the woman's body, it was definitely one of the most pleasing she'd seen, but it was her eyes that enchanted her.
A beautiful tragedy.
The woman rejected the champagne, and when she spoke, it was with a husky, throaty catch. "I cannot do this now," she responded.
"When can you do it?" Francesca asked, eyes narrowing as the woman shifted her gaze around her. Nearly nervous, but not quite. Just rushed.
She had caught the woman in the middle of something.
It occurred to Francesca she was speaking to a thief or a terrorist. Strangely, it did nothing to derail her interest.
"I'm staying at the Westin in Madrid," she said quickly. "Trite, I know, but I'm not the one paying for it." The woman hesitated, looking over her shoulder once more. "Francesca Wolff," she said, with a smile.
The woman didn't wait a second longer. She was gone in a flash of perfume and powder.
Francesca watched her go, before she took a sip of her glass, knocking the other in a flower pot.
--
"People like you and I don't fall in love," Lauren mused, left arm curled around her shoulder, holding her against her chest. "We can't afford to."
Dragged from her thoughts, Francesca felt the prickle of irritation, a dangerous emotion, when it came to Lauren. With her sweet voice and angelic face, it was easy to believe that this was simply another lover. Lauren preferred it that way. She didn't like lies, but she enjoyed farces.
Francesca shifted in her embrace, studying the woman. She hated her. She hated Lauren intensely.
Francesca did not compare lovers - she could not afford to. They were different and all random, with the exception of Marina. Marina had been her constant.
Forcing Francesca to remember Marina as she first knew her, Lauren destroyed her constant. Francesca knew she enjoyed it, enjoyed this farce, imitating a lover's relationship, careful and rough and attentive - while she drained Francesca's stories from her like a vampire hungry for blood.
She did not simply ask who Marina was, where she came from and why Marina's past was so important. Instead, she wanted to know emotion, experiences - forcing Francesca to bleed her information, while she lay naked and open.
She never wished anyone dead the way she wished it for Lauren.
She kissed her, light nips against Lauren's lips, a tease really. Lauren tolerated it, smiled into Francesca's chaste brushes of skin against skin. When she shifted forward, attempted to get a proper kiss, Francesca held back, ignored the soft moan of frustration as she gently held her closed lips against hers.
"Bloody cheat," she heard murmured, before Lauren's grip tightened, opening her mouth against hers and dipping her tongue into her mouth, tasting her deeply.
With a shove, she tossed Francesca on her back, straddled her hips, naked body glorious above her. A brilliant smile on a beautiful face, before Lauren shifted down against her body, skimming lips against her stomach, teasing her with soft kisses, until she reached the juncture of Francesca's thighs.
Throat suddenly dry, Francesca closed her eyes, biting her lower lip as Lauren did absolutely nothing.
"Don't move," she whispered, reaching up with powerful arms to hold Francesca still, keeping the woman from bucking her hips. "I enjoy making you squirm."
Francesca would not beg. She remained still, eyes closed as Lauren's fingers around her arms bruised, every word sending a puff of air against her core.
"Tell me when you loved her," she said. "When you knew."
Francesca remained stubbornly silent.
"Tell me," Lauren repeated, and suddenly her tongue was on her, laving slowly, too slowly-
"FUCK," Francesca stammered. And just as quickly, Lauren was as she was before, frozen just above her.
"Tell me if you loved her," Lauren said again.
"Yes," Francesca said. "I loved her."
"Tell me why."
--
It was four in the morning when there was a tap on her hotel room door.
Drowsy, Francesca glared at the hallway, as if the intruder would explain herself away and let her return to her slumber.
Another tap, harder, and she shoved aside blankets and padded to the door, not bothering to check the peephole before she twisted the knob and opened the door to her.
The woman stood in leather pants and a black tanktop, with her beautifully tragic eyes, staring at Francesca uncertainly.
Initially shocked, Francesca nevertheless managed a smile, regaining her composure with a sigh, shoving her bangs away from her forehead, leaning against the door.
"You're late."
She waited a beat, and suddenly the girl's lips were on hers, pushing Francesca against the wall, kicking the door shut behind her.
It was erotic and desperate, the way she took her, shoving up Francesca's silk nightgown with clumsy shoves, before her fingers were between her thighs, keeping time with Francesca's pants against her cheek as she pumped, fingers sliding, rubbing quickly.
When Francesca came, it was with a shudder, and she gave herself no time to recover, before she kissed her again, wet and sloppy and hungry. She shoved the taller girl to the bed and when the back of the mattress hit the back of her knees, pushed hard, watching her sprawl back. Straddling her, Francesca kissed her again, and again, and again.
--
Francesca lay still, watching the younger woman, with her closed eyes, eyelashes touching her cheeks.
She still did not know her name, but she knew so many other things. The mole on her back, the way she slept, as if she were dead, an exhausted demon, beautiful in appearance, tragic underneath.
She was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
A traitorous thought crossed Francesca's mind, one that made her smile in its ridiculousness.
She wanted to keep her.
It was silly. Francesca never kept anyone. There was no one worth the trouble, and this one, with dangerous friends who made people scatter in their wake and tortured boys in cafes, who was more than likely a thief or a fugitive, would bring her nothing but trouble.
Still, she was beautiful when she slept, and the sex - the sex was pretty damned good.
When she awoke, it was with a soft sigh, a flutter of lashes before dark eyes focused on her, and the woman became alert, soft smile on her face shifting to a frown.
"I don't know your name," Francesca said softly, too enthralled to spoil the moment with speaking louder than a reverent whisper.
The woman didn't move, before she slid her cheek against the sheets, against their softness. "Marina," she breathed.
"Marina," Francesca rolled the word on her tongue. "That's a beautiful name." Marina didn't answer, only studied her. "When can I see you again?" she asked, before she could stop herself.
Marina again just stared, an enigmatic expression that intrigued Francesca, forced her regrets and logic away. "You cannot," Marina said.
"You can't mean that," Francesca said, chuckling in disbelief. "You want this as much as I do."
Marina kept her gaze purposely blank, before she pushed away from her, gathering the sheets to her chest. "I should leave."
"No." It was sharp, nearly angry. Francesca closed her hand around her forearm, keeping her from moving further away. "You can't just leave."
"Let me go," Marina said tightly, voice low.
"I can't," Francesca said, and it nearly fucking killed her. What the hell was she doing? Marina stared at her hand, and Francesca relaxed her hold, watching Marina as she waited a beat, then pushed off the bed.
Francesca's jaw tightened, she didn't say anything, as Marina dressed, never once glancing in her direction.
"Thank you," she said, as if Francesca had just shown her to a table, and headed to the door.
It was her weakness. She couldn't let her go.
"Marina." The word came out desperate, near pathetic. Francesca winced at the sound of her voice, forced herself to swallow, before she moved off the bed, to stand before her.
"I leave for the States in a week," she said. "I can take you with me. I can take care of you."
It was an offer she never expected to make, and even as the words left her lips, she could not quite believe she said them. But she did not regret them.
Marina studied her, eyes narrowed, before she laughed, dark and bitter. "You do not know me. You do not know who I am."
Francesca tilted her gaze, voice even when she flatly said, "I know a person who wants to be rescued when I see one."
Marina glared at her; lips pursed. "I don't need your help. You don't know what you're dealing with."
More than likely. She couldn't bring herself to care. "I know you don't want it. If you want freedom, I'll give you that." And she kissed her, hard and possessive, as if it had already been decided.
Marina tore away, but her breath was panting and her eyes were shining, and for a second, Francesca felt the burst inside of her of primeval possession. She would keep her.
But Marina walked to the door, shut it behind her.
--
"And yet she came back to you, and you kept her."
Francesca gave Lauren an even stare, gathering in her robe, watching the woman's reflection in the mirror as she combed her hair, back to the conservative knot at the nape of her neck, the designer suits.
"Marina wanted to be rescued," she said flatly. "But she has a fierce independent spirit." Finger in her mouth, Francesca contemplated the wild Marina, with her sullen pout and sultry mouth. "She required taming, she required control."
"It's as if you found yourself a puppy," Lauren said, smile on her face, mumbling the words around a bobby pin.
Francesca glared, gathered her bare feet under her.
"I wonder," Lauren mused. "What it was about her that made you go through such trouble," the words were sarcastic, and it occurred to Francesca, as she pulled her finger from her mouth, that Lauren didn’t quite like her either.
She fought a bitter smile.
"Why are you doing this?" she said. "If you want to know who she is, just ask me. I don't mind betraying her confidence."
"That's too easy," Lauren said, eyes on the mirror, staring at her in the reflection. "If I simply asked you, you could deny yourself. You must understand, Francesca, exactly what it is you are doing."
"And what am I doing?" she snapped.
"Signing her death warrant." The words stilted her. "Did you love her?" Lauren asked pleasantly.
Francesca did not answer, lost instead in the image of Marina, beautiful, untamable Marina - who had been indignant and took what she wanted. Who had fascinated her, loved her. Who had chosen her to rescue her, to pay her debts. And Francesca had done it. She had done it gladly.
She remembered her words to Marina's mother, when she had finally caught up to them, a bloody night that erupted in tears and pain.
Marina never tired her. She had never wanted her to leave. She could not let her go.
"Would you die for her?" Katya had asked, and the words took her breath away.
In the present, she heard an imitation, a judgment from a woman who knew the way of things. Francesca could not help but hate her.
"You didn't love her," Lauren said, flat and unconcerned. "If you loved her, you would not have told me a thing. You would have died for her."
And finally, Francesca understood, as her eyes closed and she gave herself to the devil. She would not admit to the tears, not even as they trickled down her cheeks, as she hid them from Lauren with a shaky palm. Like a viper, Lauren had infected her brain, implanted her poison until it seeped into Francesca's memories, until she was no longer a savior, no longer worthy of salvation.
Francesca had known for a long time, that the best thing she had ever done was rescue Marina. She had rested on that success for seven years.
Now, with a viper's sting, and a broken heart, she let Marina go. She signed Marina's death warrant.
She would not die for her.
FIN