Chapter 1:
Lizzie was well and truly over Tom Keen.
She had the proof now of his infidelity spread across the twin bed in her motel room. The confirmation of his lies had stung, but it was his wasteful use of her feelings that really made her see red. Had anything about their life been real? She doubted that she would ever know now. When she had approached him with her suspicions, Tom had walked out the door without a glance, leaving Hudson stranded on the porch.
Why had it taken her so long to see the truth? And why had it taken her so long to trust Red when he tried to tip her off? You didn't want to see it. She hadn't wanted to believe that her marriage was a lie. Confronted with the harsh reality of his depthless duplicity, she had no choice but to accept that Red had been right all along. And, of course, why shouldn't he be? Liz thought bitterly to herself. He was right about everything else.
If Tom Keen wasn't real, then her marriage couldn't be real either. It was like she had been married to a fiction or, better yet, never married at all. When faced with the choice of sifting through the rosy memories of her false life searching for red flags that she should have seen sooner, or casting the entire debacle aside in favor of moving on, she would choose to forget. And why not? No use would come of analyzing the minutia of a life that never really existed. It was better to move on.
She paced the narrow aisle between her bed and the desk, wearing a path into the dingy motel carpet. She was restless and agitated, a jittery excitability skipping through her veins, reminding her distinctly of a very different kind of anticipation. Her mind surged to Reddington. A familiar thrill of pleasure trilled through her veins. She had spent so much of their time together avoiding his advances, ignoring his thinly veiled overtures, convinced that giving in to her own desires with him would be treacherous, wanton, wrong. She had wasted so much time. Liz halted her stride, her earlier realizations about her former husband giving life to a plan.
She glanced at the clock on the bedside table; it was just after midnight. Too late for a social call, but she knew Red hardly slept. Besides, for what she had in mind, she was certain he wouldn't mind being kept awake.
Chapter 2:
There would be no turning back from this, Liz knew. She steeled herself with a breath, steadying her hand against the heavy paneled door, stroking the dark mahogany, her knuckles curling into her palm. She held her breath, trying to calm the storm inside her. Her chest was tight, whether with apprehension or expectation she did not know. If she did this, there would be no undoing it. Anticipation coiled in her abdomen, enticing her to act on the desire that had driven her to his door. She wanted to dive into this. She wanted him and everything that went with that choice. She raised her eyes to her hand, still settled against the wood, lifted her chin boldly and then, fearlessly, she knocked.
The door swung open on a surprised Red in a white dress shirt, still crisp as it had been when she first saw him this morning, dove grey slacks, and a charcoal vest.
"Lizzie!" he smiled. He seemed pleased to find her on his doorstep. "Whatever are you doing out at this hour? Do come in!" he gestured for her to enter.
At the sight of him, her mouth went dry. She had no idea what she was going to say to him. She was suddenly unsure of her plan. It hit her abruptly, the magnitude of what she was doing and she hesitated, immobile, her foot poised to take that first step into his domain, knowing that this step was much more significant that simply crossing Red's threshold. If she did this, she would be crossing into his world.
Red cocked his head to the side, studying her quizzically, as if both questioning and somehow secretly understanding her resistance.
Fortifying herself with another deep breath, she stepped inside.
"So....what brings you 'round to my door this evening?" Red asked convivialy , closing the door behind her and reaching to take her coat.
"Oh,...I, uh....well, actually....." Lizzie stammered, unbuttoning her coat. This was going to be harder than she thought. In her motel room, when she had made this plan, it had seemed simple and fool-proof. She would show up at his current safe house, tell him that she was in love with him, and throw herself into his arms. But now that she was actually standing in front of him, she was unsure how to start. With all the culture and sophistication streaming from his every pore, she felt inexorably small, vulnerable, and a little bit foolish.
Red stepped up behind her, hands on her shoulders, lingering just a fraction of an instant longer than necessary, peeling the lightweight jacket from her arms. His face near her ear, he drawled softly, "Come now, my dear, it can't be all that awful. Couldn't you sleep all alone in that dreadful motel bed?"
Lizzie shivered at his subtle implication, turning her face toward him, eyes gazing softly over her shoulder. "Actually, no, I couldn't," she breathed, seizing the excuse he provided.
"Hmmm," he hummed thoughtfully, though it sounded for all the world to her like he was purring in her ear. "Well, we'll have to see what we can do about that," he murmured next to her ear, before withdrawing to hang her coat on the banister behind him in the foyer.
He turned back to her, flashing an inviting smile, as if totally unaware of the effect he was having on her. "Drink?" he offered brightly.
Lizzie cleared her throat unsteadily, "Um, yes, thank you. A drink would be perfect."
He led the way into a sitting room, fingertips gently guiding her elbow. "Please, sit," he invited, gesturing toward any of the furniture in the opulent room. She chose instead to pace closer to the mantle, feigning interest in the small art pieces situated there as he poured their drinks; a glass of wine for her and a Scotch for himself.
She waited until he turned around, drinks in hand, to comment on the statuette she had been pretending to admire. "This piece is.....evocative," she offered.
Red crossed to her, extending her the glass of wine, which she took gracefully from his outstretched hand. "That?" he queried. "A worthless bit of quartz!"
"Really?" Lizzie looked surprised. She turned in a slow circle, scanning her extravagant surroundings. "Then, why....?" she inquired, wondering why the owner of such an ostentatious home would decorate it with insignificant art.
"Ah, well, not all of my temporary dwellings are on loan from generous friends with good taste and the acumen to recognize quality. This estate is owned by a foolish dilettante, currently under an IRS investigation. He fled the country eight weeks ago and his holdings were suddenly available for rent. The man spends an absurd amount of money to surround himself with useless trinkets to appear more worldly." Red settled himself on the sofa facing the fireplace.
"That piece is most definitely a fake, but the story behind the actual sculpture is quite entrancing, if tragic." Red paused to sip his Scotch, knowing he had her on the hook for the rest of the story.
"The carving is called 'The Kiss'. It was created by the French sculptor, Auguste Rodin. It displays a woman, Francesca, in the embrace of her husband's younger brother, Paolo, with whom she fell in love while reading the story of Lancelot and Guinevere. As the story goes, the couple was murdered by Francesca's jealous husband when he learned of their secret love."
Lizzie turned to stare at Red and found him gazing past her, at the statuette.
"I've always found it sad......From your perspective, they appear to be embracing, but if you look at it from another angle, you'll see that Rodin carved them with their lips not quite touching. He captured them, frozen, as they were discovered and destroyed." Red's tongue was working at the inside of his mouth now, his jaw twitching as he focused on the story. "They died without ever tasting the others' breath." He shook himself from his reverie, expressions sliding across his face like waves upon the shore.
Lizzie walked toward him, choosing a seat on the heavily brocaded sofa a few inches from him. "That is a tragic tale," she agreed, taking a sip of her wine.
"Why do you think Francesca gave in to her lust for Paolo?" she asked, reclining against the plush pillows behind her back.
Red peered into his glass, "Probably she was unhappy in her current marriage. Perhaps her husband couldn't....fulfill her desires," he finished, turning hot eyes to her.
Her breath caught in her throat. It felt like they were having a conversation that meant so much more than the words they were actually saying. How could he know exactly what she wanted? Nervously, she drained her glass with an unladylike gulp. How had this conversation gotten so far away from her? She had had a plan.
She didn't notice him move, but suddenly, he had closed the distance between them, his hand reaching out for her now-empty wine glass, his index finger softly stroking hers where it rested on the stem of the glass.
"Is that why you're here, Lizzie?" he growled, his voice like a panther in his chest. "Is Tom unable to fulfill your.....desires?"
She sucked in a breath, paralyzed by the gentle pressure of his fingertips and the hypnotic quality of his voice. She was spiraling out of control. Her brain felt foggy and there was a nagging sensation that she had forgotten something important. She felt frozen until, of its own volition, her body leaned into him, her lips parting slightly for him. His eyes trailed down to her perfect lips, and she felt his gaze like a caress. Her breaths came in shallow pants as she waited for him. He swayed closer, drawn like a magnet to her mouth, his lips stopping just a hairsbreadth away from hers, unconsciously mirroring the statue on the mantle. Her eyes drifted closed, head angling slightly towards the right, breathing in the scent of him, so very close.
"You need a refill," he stated matter-of-factly. Swiftly he retreated to the sidebar with her glass in hand.
She was jarred back to being, her eyes snapping open. She blinked, confused. What just happened?
When his back was turned to her, as he prepared their drinks, he momentarily closed his eyes. What was she doing to him? He knew why she was here. Dembe had delivered the photos of her husband and Jolene Parker in the hotel room at the Orlando conference to Lizzie's motel and left them under her door this afternoon. The photos were the damning proof she'd needed to see that bastard, Tom Keen, for the lying, adulterous traitor that he was. She was here tonight for answers. Because she was lonely. Because she wanted revenge on Tom. She was here to feel like she had some control. But he couldn't help her with any of those things. She would hate him if he let her have what she wanted and he desperately wanted to stave off her inevitable contempt for just a little longer. She would regret it later and he couldn't bear to be the cause of that kind of hurt. She would blame him. And he was selfish. He knew he couldn't have her once and then give her up; and she would definitely never be his to keep.
He shook his head to himself, trying to forget the ache in his groin; better not to sample her at all if he couldn't ever taste her again.
Blowing out a silent breath, he spun around only to find her in his path.
