stage bolsters my wavering confidence.
“Hello, Quintus.”
“Rosie.”
It rolls from his tongue, fluid and familiar—and… relieved ?—and I smile. He’s the only client to call me that. The name’s too innocent for someone of my craft, which is why he started calling me by it to begin with. It’s also adds to the reason we parted ways.
He steps aside, welcomes me into his home. I’ve never been here before—we’d always met at a hotel several times a week—and I suspect this invitation into his private life has a lot to do with that last encounter.
Inside, the décor is masculine; all beautiful, rich cherry wood and dark walls. It suits him, every inch of it infused with his raw masculine scent, but for all its beauty it cannot compare to the sight of him.
Quintus towers over most, not only in size but presence. A bulky six and a half feet wrapped in dusky skin characterized by a cap of raven hair and piercing coal eyes set deep in his angular face. He has the body of a wa rrior—not a modern day commando but the hulking mass of an armored champion in the Colosseum during an era where his name would be more appropriate. Seeing him now, I’m reminded of Russell Crowe in Gladiator —not classically beautiful, but the ruggedness of his appearance and the strength of his aura enough to make a woman melt.
In contrast to his size is his voice, inflected as it is with its Corsican flair.
Not Italian. Not French. Corsican.
It is deep but gentle, never rushed, like plucking the strings of a mandolin with bare fingers. His is a voice made for moonlight; romantic and soothing yet no less intense.
He is the fourth-born son to a Moroccan mother and a father from the Bastia region of Corsica. Anyone who knows the history can appreciate the irony, but the contradictions of this man do not end there.
Quintus slips the coat from my shoulders, hangs it in a hall closet, and I feel as though the shield protecting me has been removed. We move into a living room where a bottle of wine, Corsican wine, sits focal to two plates of food, lamb and chutney by the looks of it. It smells delicious. A dish of olives and goat cheese and a plate of figs are also present on the low table. I raise a questioning brow, but follow Q to the sofa.
“Thought you might be hungry.”
“Thank you.” I sit, and in awkward silence we eat. He knows I like lamb, and his wine, and as the meal ends my suspicion is at its zenith. “Tell me why I’m here, Q.”
He takes his time to respond, wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t like the way we left things, Rosie.”
This sounds very much like we broke off a relationship. We did. At seven years, Q was a longtime client of mine. It was hard to say goodbye to him, but it was my cue.
“Rules were broken—”
“ Your rule was broken, and you were the one who accidentally broke it. I didn’t ask you to, though I’m glad you did.”
I glance away, worry my bottom lip with my teeth.
It’s true. I broke the third rule, one of the worst mistakes an actress of the stage can make. I came out of character. Got so comfortable with Q that I had too much of his delightful wine and stayed the night with him at the hotel.
Nothing should make you break character. The magic is in the mystery—staying the night is not mystery.
We awoke the next morning wrapped in each other’s arms, and Q wanted more. Not sex—sex I could give him easily. In fact, that’s what I offered, but he declined. No, Q wanted more of me , without my vocation, and he very nearly got it.
I love you, Rosie. He said it right before lightly pecking my lips, and with one line he’d completely changed the dynamics of my play. I had no clever ad lib, and the only one I could come up with, while true, would not have been appropriate.
The phenomenal Rosalind Russell said of our profession, “Acting is standing up naked and turning around very
“Hello, Quintus.”
“Rosie.”
It rolls from his tongue, fluid and familiar—and… relieved ?—and I smile. He’s the only client to call me that. The name’s too innocent for someone of my craft, which is why he started calling me by it to begin with. It’s also adds to the reason we parted ways.
He steps aside, welcomes me into his home. I’ve never been here before—we’d always met at a hotel several times a week—and I suspect this invitation into his private life has a lot to do with that last encounter.
Inside, the décor is masculine; all beautiful, rich cherry wood and dark walls. It suits him, every inch of it infused with his raw masculine scent, but for all its beauty it cannot compare to the sight of him.
Quintus towers over most, not only in size but presence. A bulky six and a half feet wrapped in dusky skin characterized by a cap of raven hair and piercing coal eyes set deep in his angular face. He has the body of a wa rrior—not a modern day commando but the hulking mass of an armored champion in the Colosseum during an era where his name would be more appropriate. Seeing him now, I’m reminded of Russell Crowe in Gladiator —not classically beautiful, but the ruggedness of his appearance and the strength of his aura enough to make a woman melt.
In contrast to his size is his voice, inflected as it is with its Corsican flair.
Not Italian. Not French. Corsican.
It is deep but gentle, never rushed, like plucking the strings of a mandolin with bare fingers. His is a voice made for moonlight; romantic and soothing yet no less intense.
He is the fourth-born son to a Moroccan mother and a father from the Bastia region of Corsica. Anyone who knows the history can appreciate the irony, but the contradictions of this man do not end there.
Quintus slips the coat from my shoulders, hangs it in a hall closet, and I feel as though the shield protecting me has been removed. We move into a living room where a bottle of wine, Corsican wine, sits focal to two plates of food, lamb and chutney by the looks of it. It smells delicious. A dish of olives and goat cheese and a plate of figs are also present on the low table. I raise a questioning brow, but follow Q to the sofa.
“Thought you might be hungry.”
“Thank you.” I sit, and in awkward silence we eat. He knows I like lamb, and his wine, and as the meal ends my suspicion is at its zenith. “Tell me why I’m here, Q.”
He takes his time to respond, wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t like the way we left things, Rosie.”
This sounds very much like we broke off a relationship. We did. At seven years, Q was a longtime client of mine. It was hard to say goodbye to him, but it was my cue.
“Rules were broken—”
“ Your rule was broken, and you were the one who accidentally broke it. I didn’t ask you to, though I’m glad you did.”
I glance away, worry my bottom lip with my teeth.
It’s true. I broke the third rule, one of the worst mistakes an actress of the stage can make. I came out of character. Got so comfortable with Q that I had too much of his delightful wine and stayed the night with him at the hotel.
Nothing should make you break character. The magic is in the mystery—staying the night is not mystery.
We awoke the next morning wrapped in each other’s arms, and Q wanted more. Not sex—sex I could give him easily. In fact, that’s what I offered, but he declined. No, Q wanted more of me , without my vocation, and he very nearly got it.
I love you, Rosie. He said it right before lightly pecking my lips, and with one line he’d completely changed the dynamics of my play. I had no clever ad lib, and the only one I could come up with, while true, would not have been appropriate.
The phenomenal Rosalind Russell said of our profession, “Acting is standing up naked and turning around very
Similar Books
