Page 49 of Outcast’s Vow

A few weeks ago, this man was a total stranger. I met him against my will and instantly hated him. And now I might be, despite my best intentions... well, I don’t dare say it.

God, how quickly things can change.

And I now have a different understanding of who he really is. He likes me. He basically confessed to it. I saw it as plain as if it were written in permanent marker on his face, even if he won’t dare admit it.

But I want to solve him before I let him ravage me.

“I’ve told you about my love for Juniper Wren,” I say to him as I nurse my glass of wine, drilling down in my investigation. “Now it’s your turn to tell me about yourself, husband. Tell me all about your mysterious past. Strip yourself bare for me.”

Baptiste chuckles. A charming deflection.

“What would you like to know, wife? Trust me, I don’t have the space to hide any skeletons in my closet.”

I take a sip of my drink. I can’t avoid gazing at his sharp collarbone exposed in his open silk shirt, but I’ve got to stay professional here. On target.

“Oh, well, it’s just that there are a lot of rumors circulating, especially from the Castaways, but not much truth.”

“Castaways women are talking about me?” he queries, curious.

“Maybe.”

“Are you a gossip, Sylvie Tremblay?”

I shrug nonchalantly.

“I’d like to know about the man I sleep next to.”

Baptiste scoffs.

“I like to ski,” he admits.

“That’s evident.”

“I like black coffee,” he says. “I like cold winters, I like fast motorcycles, and I like women who don’t ask me too many questions.”

I frown.

“Be serious.”

“Okay, so you’re after the entire rags-to-riches story?”

“Yes, but not the story you’d tell some lifestyle magazine interviewer. I want your story, Baptiste. Your truth.”

Baptiste nods, contemplating my request. Opening up isn’t his natural disposition. It’s obvious he’s learned early to raise walls, but I’m not here to destroy him. I’m not a rival, and I hope he sees that.

“I also like chess,” Baptiste says. “I don’t think I’ve told you that.”

“No, you haven’t.”

Baptiste pauses.

“When I was seven, I came across a man playing chess alone in Washington Square Park,” he explains. “I was a ballsy kid. I asked if he needed an opponent. He did. I won.”

He waits for me to say something.

I don’t.

“His name was George Cote, Supreme Elder of the Castaways.”