Spirit Bound - Christine Feehan [171]
“It isn’t okay to torture and murder someone because they cross you, Jean-Claude.”
His face darkened with impatience. “You’re coming with me, and this time, mon amour, you will do as you’re told. I’ll have you watched every moment of the day until you realize where your place is.”
Judith stumbled as he shoved her into the studio. She caught herself on a table’s edge, turning slowly to face him.
“You’re so predictable,” Jean-Claude said, looking around her studio. “My industrious little Judith, always doing the responsible thing. I knew you’d want to protect those paintings and you’d rush to your little studio to put them all right again.” He shoved one of the canvases. “And of course you did. You never paint without opening the doors and letting in the fresh air. All I had to do was wait. See how well I know you?”
She winced at the triumph in his voice. She’d certainly done exactly as he predicted. Temper fluttered in her stomach and she pressed a hand there as if somehow that would ward off the flaring rage beginning to bubble like a hot pool of magma. “What did you come here for, Jean-Claude?”
“What did I come here for?” he repeated, biting out each word through clenched teeth, his smoldering anger beginning to catch fire.
Judith knew she was the one fanning the flames. Her own anger was rising and feeding right into his, but she didn’t care. She was damned tired of being pushed around emotionally because she had to protect everyone.
“That’s what I asked you,” she snapped back.
“I came for you. You’re mine. Did you think prison was going to keep us apart? Did you think it was safe for you to find someone else?”
She shoved her hair out of her face, glaring at him. “Your little spy was a bit premature with his report to you. And it’s not your business if I see anyone. You killed my brother and I’ll never forgive you for that. Get out of my house.”
He stepped forward, catching her upper arms to give her a little shake. All the strength she’d mistaken for suave confidence was really something evil lurking beneath the surface. He was a man who felt little emotion. Because her feelings were so strong, hers spilled over to those around her—including him. He wanted those feelings back and felt she was withholding his emotions from him, by not allowing herself to love him. Judith understood now. Jean-Claude was cold and lacked the ability to connect with others.
As a young woman with no experience, she had admired and loved the man she thought he was—a fantasy she’d conjured up in her head. He had basked in that love and admiration, feeling her projection so strongly, but once she was away from him, he’d gone back to that cold, emotionless man who had no moral compass whatsoever.
“I’m not going to argue with you, Judith, not when you’re being unreasonable. Where’s our painting?”
The question caught her off guard. That was so like Jean-Claude. She had never realized all the times he’d abruptly ended a conversation and made her feel young and stupid, just how often he manipulated her to get his way.
“Painting?”
“You took our painting. The one of our meeting. I loved that painting and so did you. It was the only thing you took. Even your clothes were left behind.”
For a moment that horrible realization came back, that moment of truth. She was in love with a killer. She had taken the painting because she was young and silly and so in love with such a wealthy, sophisticated Frenchman. The tragic end to her love affair would always be remembered when she looked at the painting—and then he’d had her brother murdered. That painting had become her nemesis. She poured her hatred and anger and sorrow onto that canvas over the last five years.
“I painted over it. I couldn’t stand to look at it.”
“You heartless bitch. That painting