Bluebeard (3 page)

“But he loves his mistress.” Blue looked at the Pug as it licked Petra’s cheek. She giggled, twisting her face away. “I can’t blame him.”

She looked up at him in wonder. Where was all this sudden affection coming from? He was usually so reserved!

“Sir?” Max called from the doorway and they both jumped, moving apart. “The car’s ready.”

Blue glanced at him and then back to Petra, touching her hand briefly. “I look forward to our date.”

Date!

She felt positively giddy.

“Goodbye!” She waved Milyi’s paw at them as she watched her husband follow Max down the hallway. When she heard them turn down another hallway to go through the dining room, she set the Pug on the Italian tile. She dropped a piece of bacon to the floor for him with a forlorn sigh, watching him scarf it up, making distinctly pig-like noises with his mashed-in doggie snout.

She fought the urge to follow Blue—to at least run to the window and watch the car pull out of the long driveway toward the gates. But she had quickly learned restraint with her husband. If she approached him, he would shy away. He might even growl or bark at her, like her pugnacious little puppy. But if she waited, he often came to her. A brief touch of his hand against hers. The press of his palm against the small of her back. A caress of her neck. A kiss on the cheek.

But no further.
Why?

She didn’t understand, but she was too afraid to ask him. She sat down at the counter, morosely picking at the eggs she’d been so hungry for just twenty minutes ago. English wasn’t her first language, and the effort it would take for her to broach the subject seemed insurmountable. How could you ask your husband why he didn’t want you? No. It was too humiliating to be borne.

“You made your own breakfast again?” Mrs. Ribya scolded her in Russian as she bustled into the kitchen. The woman was tall, gangly, her dark uniform making her look like a spider—all legs. Her blond hair was always pulled back into a severe bun. She surveyed her younger charge, hands on hips. “What am I supposed to do with myself, if you keep taking on all my duties?”

Petra smirked, chewing on a piece of bacon. “I don’t do windows.”

Mrs. Ribya laughed. They often talked in Russian when no one else was around. Mrs. Ribya had helped all of them communicate over the last three months, when the language barrier broke down. She was fluent in both English and Russian.

“I’m not hungry.” Petra pushed her plate away. “Give it to Milyi. I’m going for a swim.”

The little dog grunted happily when Mrs. Ribya dumped the contents of Petra’s plate into his gold-plated bowl, not following his mistress as she made her way down the hallway, through the dining room where she ate dinner every night with her husband. She missed his shy smile, his deep, booming laugh. She missed the way he teased her about her broken English, the words she often twisted around into mixed up phrases like pretzels. She missed how his gaze followed her around a room, drank her in, as if he couldn’t get enough.

She knew the feeling.

Her room was all the way at the other end of the thirty-room house, and by the time she had her suit on, she was breathless and panting. But she wasn’t sure it was from exertion. She couldn’t help remembering the time her husband had come swimming with her—soon after she’d been caught by the cameras, actually, as if he’d suddenly grown curious about her time in the pool—his dark hair wet and curling at the nape of his neck, droplets glistening in his beard as he sat next to her and shook his head like a dog, spraying her with water. His shoulders were so wide, his arms thick and muscled. He was twenty years her senior, but the only sign of that was the graying of his hair at the temples.

She had seen his look of lust that day, unmistakable. Every time she got near him, she heard his breath quicken, just like her own pulse. It was torture, being so wet and slick, having so few clothes on, and not touching him. It was
always
torture not touching him!

Petra grabbed a fluffy towel out of her bathroom, racing out of her bedroom and down the hall. There was only one thing that could cool her thoughts. When she got to the pool—Mrs. Ribya had unlocked it for her—she dove in headfirst, losing herself immediately, her body light, buoyant. She began doing laps, taking long, even strokes. It was like meditation. She could do it all day.

It didn’t take her mind off Blue—but it did calm her.

She only stopped when she heard Milyi scratching on the door—he had finished his breakfast and found her. He didn’t like to swim, but he curled up comfortably to watch, keeping her company when she came out and dried off, dog and mistress falling asleep together on one of the lounge chairs.

Mrs. Ribya woke her with lunch—a baked tomato with hazelnut breadcrumbs, pickled baby squash, and fresh cantaloupe—which Petra ate at one of the bistro tables, ravenous, her appetite returned. She convinced Mrs. Ribya to stay and keep her company a while as she ate, both of them tossing a ball for Milyi to chase, although he version of “fetch” was to run away with the ball so you could fetch it from him!

“You miss him, yes?” the older woman asked.

Petra nodded, knowing she meant Blue, trying to let the sweetness of the melon brighten her mood. “I miss him even when he’s here.”

Mrs. Ribya started to gather empty dishes onto the empty tray. “Maybe that will change for you both soon.”

The older woman just smiled and shrugged when Petra asked her what she meant, taking the dishes back to the kitchen. Petra made her way back to her room to shower and change. By then, it was four o’clock. What could she do with the rest of her day without Blue?

She curled up on her bed, feeling sorry for herself, Milyi nestled against her belly, snoring happily. Of course, she had no right to complain. Yes, life with Blue had been a whirlwind, from courtship to marriage to life in this mansion, but it was a far cry from what she had been living in Minsk, working as a young secretary.

She’d been orphaned at the age of three, her parents both victims of a factory fire, and spent the next fifteen years dreaming of life in America. It wasn’t until she was out in the world, away from the orphanage and working for a living, that her dream had been made reality when her friend, Sophia, had told her about being a mail-order bride.

Yes, there were horror stories of girls being sold into slavery, of women killed in their sleep by their husbands in America. There were also love stories—arranged marriages that lasted decades, lifetimes, filled with laughter and children and joy. The men in Minsk were scarce. Women outnumbered them considerably. It was much easier to find a husband this way, Sophia said.

Of course, she had never expected to find Blue.

He was handsome and charming, if restrained and a little quiet. He’d convinced her completely that her life with him would be a dream, and it had turned out to be true.

So why wasn’t she happy?

He’d answered her numerous questions. He’d said all the right things.

Why do you want to marry me?
I want to settle down, have a wife to keep my company.

Why would a man like you take a mail-order bride?
Too many people in America know who I am. It makes dating very… difficult.

Why me?
Because you’re the one, Pet. I knew it the moment I saw you.

What woman could have turned him down? Certainly not her. Their wedding had been a small, quiet affair—upon her request, he’d offered her an elaborate ceremony—just like their marriage. He had taken her to a few functions, including the Grammies, paparazzi flashbulbs blinding them, a dizzying menagerie of limos, pristine smiles, laughter and handshakes. He dressed her up like a doll when they went out, picking her clothing, down to the underwear he never saw.

He never said he wanted children.
No, that was true. He had said he wanted a wife, someone to keep him company. He’d never mentioned sex, hadn’t even stolen a kiss before their wedding. Although the man was so sexy it was hard to be near him without getting dizzy with lust. She’d seen other women react the same way, saw the light in their eyes, the way they flushed and fluttered around him like butterflies.

So she could only assume he’d wanted a trophy wife, someone he could show off. What was she complaining about? He was kind to her. He gave her everything she wanted. What more could she ask for?

I want him.

It was true. She did. And she knew, she
knew
he wanted her too. He wanted her—but he wouldn’t touch her. He denied himself, and her, at every turn. Why? It was so maddening it made her sob with frustration. Petra sighed, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the key he had given her, wondering at it.

The master key.
I wish
. If only there was a key to unlock whatever secrets he was really hiding.

“Would you like to help me make dinner?” Mrs. Ribya interrupted her thoughts and she looked up to see her standing in the doorway

Petra hastily shoving the key back into her jeans pocket, smiling. Mrs. Ribya didn’t need any more help with dinner than Max needed help with driving a car. She was asking to take her mind off things, giving her something to do to while away the hours until Blue returned.

“What are we cooking?”

It turned out to be sticky balsamic ribs, along with a lemony potato salad with green beans and a honey peach pie for dessert. There was a lot to be done, from peeling potatoes to breaking off the ends of beans—Milyi got to eat those—and the two women did it together, chatting in Russian the whole while.

Mrs. Ribya had been with Blue for five years and knew a great deal about him, but she’d come along just after he’d retired from the music business. She told Petra about the “groupies-from-hell” who sometimes scaled the gates, never getting as far as the house, but setting off the alarms in the middle of the night. They both talked about Blue’s strange stage-shows, marveling at the pyrotechnics, the theatrics, women tied up in bondage on stage in mock guillotines or iron maidens. Lots of fake blood, simulated sex, and of course, loud rock and roll. He’d been banned in several states, and some places overseas as well, before Bluebeard retired.

They’d also won three Grammies and two of their albums had gone triple platinum.

Petra couldn’t bear to eat dinner at the big mahogany table all alone, so she convinced Mrs. Ribya to eat with her in the kitchen nook, both of them laughing and licking sticky sauce off their fingers, feeding the dog under the table. But the older woman drew the line at allowing Petra to clean up with her.

“You go off and watch TV or something,” Mrs. Ribya insisted, steering her out of the kitchen by her shoulders. “If you need anything, just call me.”

They all had cell phones that connected and worked as walkie-talkies.

Petra started the long, lonely walk back to her room, Milyi panting beside her, fingering the key in her jeans pocket and thinking about her husband. It was only eight o’clock, but she was sleepy, having been up before dawn, definitely tired enough to go to bed, but instead of turning right at the top of the stairs to go to her suite of rooms, she turned left instead, heading toward Blue’s.

Did the master key really work? Blue’s music room was at the very end of the left wing, next to his bedroom, and he always kept it locked, the equipment in there, including three Mac computers, very expensive. She tried the doorknob and sure enough, it was locked. Petra slid the key in, breath held, and slowly turned it. She heard the tumbler click, and the knob moved in her hand.

She’d been in this room, plenty of times. Sometimes, in the middle of the afternoon when she heard him playing, she would creep down the hall to listen. She liked to hear him when he didn’t know she was there, but she also loved to see him break into a warm smile whenever she appeared in the doorway, waving her in and patting the piano bench next to him—or one of the many stools set up in the room, if he happened to be playing guitar.

But he never played Bluebeard’s music anymore, and once she’d asked him about it.