Zoe's Lesson

The only sound was the whisper and slither of clothes as they undressed each other, the slide of silk to the floor as Zoe shrugged out of her halter top and trousers. Then they lay naked on the satin sheets, staring at each other for a long moment. Zoe wanted to speak, to say something, and the words clogged in her throat, too many words. She wanted to tell Max she might not have a scar on her face, but there was one on her soul. She wanted to explain that, like him, she’d had an accident—an accident of birth. And, she suspected, like him, it had left her wrecked and wondering how to rebuild a life that had been virtually destroyed, if there even was a life to rebuild.

Yet she said none of it, despite the pressure building inside her, in her chest and behind her eyes. She blinked away the sting of tears she hadn’t expected and when Max kissed her again, his hands skimming her body, learning all of its curves and dips and secret places, she gave herself up to the sweet oblivion and let the words—and the thoughts, the fears—trickle away…at least for now.

Afterwards Max lay on his back, Zoe resting in the curve of his arm, her slender body curled towards the shelter of his. A tendril of her hair tickled his nose, and he breathed in that now-familiar scent of rose water. Shampoo, he surmised, and smiled.

He wasn’t used to smiling, not a real smile anyway, and he wasn’t accustomed to feeling this good. His body hummed with sleepy satiation, his limbs languid and heavy, and he felt, for the moment, utterly replete.

How strange.

For weeks—since that moment on the plane when his world had gone totally, terrifyingly black—he’d felt as if he were missing something. Losing something, bit by bit, so his body and his soul and his tormented mind all hungered for it, cried out for it.

Yet now, amazingly, he felt as if he’d been given something. He felt full. Blessed, even.

Ridiculous.

He heard Zoe give a little sigh and knew she was asleep; her head was heavy on his arm. He had no intention of sleeping himself, no desire to surrender to the weakness of dreams, or have Zoe see him in such a humiliatingly vulnerable state.

Carefully he extracted himself and rolled to a sitting position, his feet flat on the floor. The clothes were scattered haphazardly, and it took a moment for him to find his boxers. He pulled them on and then oriented himself by the foot of the bed; it was six steps to the door to the terrace.

Outside, the air had turned chilly and damp, and a breeze blew over him, cooling his heated skin. Ten steps to the railing; in the darkness he could make out very little, and he made a note to have all the terrace furniture removed. He’d hardly need it, as he doubted he’d spend much time out here.

Do you ever grow tired of the view?

No, he never had. He’d lost it before he had the chance.

Max closed his eyes. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. He didn’t know if the voice inside his head was his own or his father’s. No point in whining, regretting. Just get on with it. Get on with living.

Yet this didn’t feel like living. This, he acknowledged starkly, felt like slowly dying. Yet even as this realization dawned, another followed closely on its heels.

What had happened in there, with Zoe—just Zoe—hadn’t felt like dying. That had been life in its purest, most elemental form. He’d never experienced a night like that with a woman before, and he’d had plenty of nights. Plenty of women. Yet never had he felt so attuned with another person before, moving truly as one flesh.

Or was he just romanticising a tawdry encounter, imbuing it with more meaning that it actually had because he knew he would not have another night like it? He couldn’t hide his encroaching blindness forever, couldn’t keep the darkness at bay. The doctor had given him months, perhaps only weeks. Perhaps, Max thought as he struggled to identify the Chrysler Tower amidst the blurred shapes of the Manhattan skyline, only days.

And then what? What could his future possibly look like, what shape could it take?

He had no idea, couldn’t imagine the suffocating darkness all the time, endlessly blindfolded. Just the thought of it made his chest hurt as he fought back the encroaching panic. At least now he had some visibility, some light. Some sanity.

He turned away from the view he couldn’t really see. He would allow Zoe to sleep until morning, and then she would have to go. There was no point in her staying. Not that she would even want to stay; it had been clear to both of them what this night was…simply that, a night.

He took ten steps to the door, another six to the bed. From the light outside he could see the golden halo of her hair spread on the pillow, the pale, bare shoulder above the ink-coloured sheet.

She was a shallow, spoiled socialite. Every indication proved that assessment true. No matter what she had said, nights like these were simply par for the course. So why did the thought of her walking away in the morning feel like a punch straight to the gut?

To the heart?

Gently, so gently she didn’t even stir, he slid his hand along her shoulder, across her cheek, feeling—seeing—her for the last time. His hand stilled as his thumb brushed moisture clinging to her lashes.

A tear?

Why would a woman like her—a spoiled socialite—be crying?

Regret and guilt bit at him. He knew he was dismissing her; he knew he needed to.

To believe she was more, could be more to him, was both dangerous and pointless.

They had no future together.

They couldn’t.

Max let his hand fall away and stretched out next to her, making sure not to brush against the inviting warmth of her body. He lay there, staring sightlessly ahead, waiting for sleep to come. He both hated and craved sleep, for while it granted oblivion, it also meant darkness and dreams.

More darkness.

Chapter Three

ZOE woke slowly to sunlight, felt it stream over her sheet-covered body and warm her face. She kept her eyes closed, enjoying the warmth as she stretched slowly, languorously, the satin sheet cool against her bare skin.

She was naked.

In an instant the memories rushed back, tumbling through her mind, making her smile. Her body still hummed with satisfaction; her heart felt full.

Last night…Last night had been wonderful.

She opened her eyes; sunlight streamed in from the wall of windows, bathing the room in cheerful morning light, slanting golden shafts across the empty bed.

Max was gone.

Zoe was surprised it had taken her this long to realise it; his absence was enormous, as if there was a great jagged hole next to her instead of an empty expanse of navy satin. Slowly she pulled the sheet around her, tucking it firmly across her breasts. Still, it trailed across the floor, and as she stepped over her scattered garments from last night she almost considered pulling them on, but then couldn’t bear to do such a thing, for somehow—unreasonably perhaps—it relegated last night to something tawdry and temporary, and she didn’t think it was.

Hoped it wasn’t.

Was she simply being naive?

Last night she’d wanted to forget who she was, what she was, in Max’s arms. She had, and amazingly, she’d woken feeling new. Different.

In Max’s arms she’d felt whole. Healed.

Loved.

Now she realised she was being ridiculous. She barely knew the man; he certainly didn’t know her, just Zoe. Could one night—one amazing night—really change that?

Zoe slipped into the living room, the morning light making the room seem all the more sparely chic and austere. And empty. Max wasn’t there. She looked in the kitchen, peeked in two other bedrooms, a study, a library and a dining room with a table that looked able to seat twenty—but probably never sat a soul—and couldn’t find him anywhere.

Had he actually left?

She stood in the middle of the library with its walls lined with leather-bound books, a huge mahogany desk in one corner. A scent of leather and pipe tobacco hung faintly in the air, and for a moment Zoe was reminded with painful force of home, of her father.

Oscar.