Ghosts of the Past

Also by Kat Samuels

Seasons (a steamy, second chance, seasoned romance)

Garden of Delights (a steamy, multicultural, college rom-com)

Beyond the Next Breath (a steamy, interracial, reverse age-gap romantic suspense tale)

Theater of Engagement (a steamy, multicultural, new adult, fake engagement rom-com)

Dedications

With immense thanks to Caro Bertaud for her help with information on French schools. All errors here are mine, not hers.

As always, my love to my sister Armida, my constant support

Author’s Note:

As this is the story of Annie and Etienne’s romance, it is told in both of their perspectives (and occasionally in other characters’, as well). Please be prepared for chapters to switch back and forth between viewpoints, so you receive a fuller vision of their love story.

Also, the details about the French educational system here are striving for truth, but I’m aware they’ve fallen short, so they should not be taken as fact. If you have deeper knowledge of this system than this story does, please take this as a separate, slightly alternate reality and focus on the love story, instead.

If you enjoy Annie and Etienne’s love story,

look for the link to a free, missing chapter at the end of this novel.

Chapter 1

All in all, Annie Mignon thought, her bridal shower was more like a wake.

Here she was, about to get married and take off to a brand-new country, one she had wanted to see for her entire life. She should be wearing a veil on her copper-colored hair, as they all drank mohitos from penis-shaped straws—even if, admittedly, she wasn’t really in the mood—yet her friends looked like she was about to die, instead.

Some party.

Giving them a smile which was, if she wanted to admit it—which she didn’t—more bravery than joy, she slapped one of her oldest and dearest friends playfully on the leg, where she sat beside her on the floor. C’mon, Christa. Don’t you have anything good to say?

Tilting her head down to try to meet the other woman’s eyes, which were far mistier than she would have liked, she continued.

A joke? An old proverb? Some naughty wedding night advice? Anything?

Her friend’s mouth twisted slightly, her orange-red bangs half-covering the brilliant blue eyes. Again, Christa repeated the objection she had practically been screaming for the last two hours. You’re about to marry a man who’s at least twice your age.

Three times, but who’s counting?

He’s going to take you away to a country you’ve never been to, Christa went on. We’re going to be separated by an ocean and God knows what else.

"There are such things as cellphones, Annie smiled. I do know how to text."

Sad blue eyes looked up at her despondently through a stray tuft of red hair. Christa had said it all before. Clearly, she was out of words.

Felice grabbed a few locks of her long, dark curls in frustration for a second, her light green eyes insistent. Annie, please.

Her friend looked over at her. Felice had let go of her hair, but was nearly digging her well-tended nails into her light coffee-colored arms.

"You know what we’re saying. You know why we’re doing this. There is no way in Hell you’re gonna be happy with him. She shook her head, her eyes pleading. You don’t even like him."

Looking away so as not to be too pulled into that begging look, the bride-to-be silently ticked off the ledger so far: Flesh-crawling dictator of a new husband—1; Paris and a school of my own—50 million. However, she was wise enough not to voice this to the people who loved her.

Christa’s patience for social niceties gave out, her hand slamming on the floor, causing her old friend to jump slightly. Damn it, Annie! How long are you going to let him do this to you? How long are you going to let your stepfather dictate your life?

Trying to ignore the truth in the words, her target swallowed quietly. She had to focus on what she was gaining here, or she could never go through with it.

Christa’s shoulders sagged, while she stared at her desperately. Annie, listen to me. That man hates you. He always has.

The almost-bride looked up at her tentatively.

You know that. He’s done everything on earth he could to make you absolutely miserable ever since the moment you had the misfortune to have him come into your life. He’s taken away your pride, your faith in yourself, even your friends—when he could. He’s tried ever since he first met you to destroy everything real in you. Christa’s head was shaking. You’ve always admitted that before, always run away when he tried to push you on someone terrible. Why can’t you see that now?

She was nearly yelling, her desire to protect Annie clearly nearly driving her into madness. Annie loved her for it, even if she knew she couldn’t let her win.

Tomas sighed, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling. A light behind him shone on his dark hair, bringing out the brown in the black, the longer strands lost in his collar. When he spoke, refocusing on her, his voice was quiet. Annie.

Biting her lip, she looked up at the man she had dated so briefly, the one she had willingly given up to Christa, who fit him so much better. He was looking at her so gently. You don’t want to do this.

In many ways, this was only too true. After all, it wasn’t the sixteenth century. Her stepfather didn’t have the legal right to beat her and throw her about the room, if she disobeyed. She could back out even now, could run away from the pain she knew would come if she married a man she could never love—could probably never even like—one who came with his own, permanent mistress attached. Christa and Tomas had even promised to help her till she found a job, which Tomas had offered to use his connections to help her find. She could break away from a family which had no real liking for her at last.

She knew all of this. But if she did . . .

Again she told them the real reason for her decision—but she couldn’t meet any of their eyes. If I do this, I get the school, and I get France.

She looked up at all of their imploring stares.

Don’t you see? Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed of that school and that country. The breath she let out was shaky. "And this is my only way to get it."

Felice’s dark eyes were sympathetic, as she placed a gentle hand on Annie’s leg. But you’re only 21. Paris isn’t going to disappear if you don’t go right now. It’ll be there ten, twenty—fifty years from now. She leaned in, her green eyes begging. "You’ll have another chance."

Unfortunately, the words didn’t have their desired effect. Instead, Annie swallowed heavily, her hand reaching up unconsciously to rub over her heart. Will I?

Again, Felice was left to answer, Christa looking further away. But you don’t know that there won’t be another chance.

Ignoring the sad, knowing glance Annie was certain she was giving her, Felice continued more insistently.

You were fine a month ago, Annie. Hell, you could outrun the lot of us and leave us tired. Eyes a little despairing, she shook her head. I just can’t believe that your heart could start going wrong so quickly.

Annie hated this subject but tried to smile gently. I’ve felt it, Felice—just once or twice, just lately—but I have. I can’t sit back and hope for something which may or may not happen in some far future any more. She shook her head. I may not get this opportunity again.

Christa took a deep breath. But this school, Annie, its history . . . She broke off for a second, clearly struggling for words. It’s like inheriting Hell. Why not just burn it down and be done with it?

She leaned in, her eyes begging.

"There are other jobs."

It was a little difficult not to cry. For as long as Christa and Felice had known her, they had never understood Annie’s feelings about the place, despite all its terrible past. After all, her aunt had left it to her, wanted her to carry on her legacy. But that wasn’t the only reason.

Staring at her feet, she tried to answer. I know that. But . . . I’ve always been drawn to it, always wanted to see it. I mean, I’ve known it might be mine for so long now . . .

She managed to look up, another deep breath leaving her.

I want to make something of it, make it my own. I’ve got the skills now, the education. Leaning in to them, she begged. "I want this."

But this marriage . . . Christa pleaded.

It’s the only way I get Aunt Helain’s school. She shrugged once more. Otherwise . . .

Otherwise, she was an unmarried woman and couldn’t inherit, as she’d explained to them before—although why Helain had included such a codicil in her will, given the Hell of her own marriage, was beyond her. Possibly it was something Helain’s mother had added after her death? Annie had never quite gotten a straight answer on this, as much as she had asked.

That said nothing, as well, of the money and reputation required to open such a school—things her new husband had buckets of but which weren’t going to be found by a 21-year-old with a heart condition. He had experience running other private bilingual schools, which were a very hot commodity in France nowadays. Her aunt had known what she was doing there.

Duncan understood what they were getting into with this marriage, too, had never proposed to her as though he were in love. It was an arrangement, but one which gave them both something they wished for.

Of course, it wasn’t as though she were expecting to enjoy any part of being married to Duncan. Even the wedding day had been arranged by her stepfather solely for her half-sister’s benefit—and she wasn’t even the bride.

Still, all the bridesmaids were Natalie’s friends, the dresses and color scheme ones which suited her pale blonde hair, rather than Annie’s more Titian locks. The shade of pink Natalie had chosen, all while smirking at how it clashed with her sister’s hair, was just one of thousands of such attacks Annie hadn’t the will left to fight anymore. All of the wedding presents had already been either snagged by Natalie or thrown out, too, Duncan having no interest in them. Annie was just left writing thank you notes for items she’d barely seen.

This was standard, though—Natalie the spoiled princess and Annie the, literal, red-headed stepchild.

It wasn’t like her mother would stop it. She had started quietly drinking when Annie’s father had walked out when Annie was still in kindergarten. Her marriage to Victor—who despised Annie and saw her fit only as a whipping girl—hadn’t stopped that. Her mother’s philosophy on relationships seemed to be to find someone who would take care of her physically and then numb herself to everything else.

It made Annie shudder a bit to know that, in some ways, she might be following the same idea.

Silence overcame them, her friends clearly having argued themselves out. But they obviously hadn’t changed their minds.

Annie didn’t blame them, but she also couldn’t give in. Victor had chosen his friend as the one she should wed and made it clear that he would destroy Annie’s reputation with any school she might apply to if she refused—and he had the standing and connections to do it. If she stayed, she would be living with a family who hated her with no prospects, still with a heart condition which would end her, and without the school and country she had always dreamed about.

One charade with a side of Paris, please!

Their reverie was broken by a knock on the door.

Distracted by old habits, Felice looked around wearily. Do you want me to hide?

Annie shrugged. Why bother? What can my stepfather do to me now, even if he does find out you’re here? I’m getting married to the man of his choice tomorrow and leaving the country in a couple of days. What good would stealing my car keys again do him?

A profound silence filled the room as the guest they had all dreaded arrived.

Duncan opened the door without waiting for them to answer, and there was a very small part of Annie which wished that Christa and Tomas had locked it, even though they had known he was coming. He greeted Christa in a solicitous manner, which she nearly spit at, and barely nodded to Felice or Tomas.

The usual, in other words.

Somewhere in the back of Annie’s mind, she wondered whether the fact that Duncan wasn’t having his own bachelor party were down to the fact that this was just an arrangement between them. Still, he was followed in a second later by his constant companion, Sophie.

I guess his mistress wouldn’t approve of him stuffing dollar bills in anyone else’s g-string, either, her mind added cattily.

It certainly wasn’t like she was jealous of the woman—anyone else could have Duncan, as far as she was concerned—but the woman’s cold presence was always unsettling. It wasn’t anything about her physically, either. The woman’s mink-colored hair was perfectly groomed, her outfit both quiet and designer. Although she was around Duncan’s age, she had the sort of looks which were often referred to as well preserved, nothing artificial about them. Indeed, there was something about her of the china doll—so long as it was one which was haunted by demons.

Moving past the others, her gray-haired groom-to-be reached out to take Annie’s hand, breaking into her thoughts, as she rose slowly. He was quite a handsome older man, tall and well-built, and she had to try to hide from herself the fact that, despite what should be his attractions, he had always given her the creeps.

But she had known this was coming. There was no use in complaining now.

Annie.

Duncan’s voice was everything pleasant. She sometimes thought she could almost hear a bit of an Irish brogue there, but, given that the man was French, that really wasn’t likely. Still, it gave his voice a nice, gravelly edge, which didn’t quite make up for the fact that his light blue eyes always reminded her of a snake about to strike.

My dear, you’re going to tire yourself out. Come on home. Victor has been worried about you.

Like a jailor worries over his prisoner, Christa murmured under her breath.

Sophie’s dark eyes met hers, smiling rather coldly, and Annie watched Christa’s slight shudder in response.

Ignoring the exchange, and hoping to draw attention away from her friends, Annie nodded. I know, Duncan.

It still took a leap of memory not to call him Uncle Patrick—and that said nothing of the fact that she felt a little ill when she thought about the idea that she’d be Annie Patrick in less than 24 hours.

She tried to smile politely. I’m sorry. Let me say goodbye, and we’ll go. Turning, she looked at the woman who hadn’t spoken a word. Sophie, she nodded—and then tried to ignore the sense of disgust she saw rising in the woman’s gaze.

Gee, Sophie, you mean marrying off the man you’ve been fooling around with longer than I’ve been alive but who won’t put a ring on it is ticking you off? Then maybe you shouldn’t have done everything in your power to convince me to go through with this.

Weirdly, and thankfully, Sophie had stunned her earlier today by coming into her room to explain that Annie’s marriage to Duncan would be an unconsummated one. She had stated it in a completely matter-of-fact way, making it clear who would be handling those duties.

Honestly, it had only helped to make Annie more resigned to her rapidly-approaching wedding. The one thing she had most dreaded was any thought of being touched by the man. She just wasn’t clear on whether that had been Sophie’s point in coming to her or not.

The marriage would be a sham, then, but that was a given. It would get her to France and to her school, and that was what was important.

Drawing her attention back, Duncan held onto her hand a few seconds longer than Annie was comfortable with—but at least she wouldn’t have to endure any more than that.

Of course, dear. Sophie and I will be outside. He let her go.

Although the pair moved away, they were still within sight and hearing through the open door, but her friends were clearly desperate. "Annie, please," Felice whispered.

She just hugged her. Bye, Felice. I’ll miss you.

Annie, Christa begged, but was cut off by a shake of Annie’s head.

Annie hugged her a little desperately, instead.

I’ll miss you, Christa whispered.

The very unhappy bride-to-be was practically choking back tears by this point. She knew this was the last time she would see them before she left. Victor had made it clear that they would not be allowed at the wedding. What worried her was that, with her heart the way it was, it might be the final time she saw them at all.

She turned to her final friend quietly. Of all of them, Tomas was the most like her, the one who understood her the best. If only she had been able to love him in return, she might not be leaving with a man who made her flesh crawl.

The man who had taught her most of what she knew about education looked down at her quietly and sighed. Then he took her softly in his arms and kissed her copper hair. Be strong, he breathed, for her alone.

Swallowing heavily, she pulled back from him, her eyes watering slightly.

They loved her and wanted her to be happy—and she was disappointing them all. But she couldn’t disappoint herself, instead.

For another few seconds they stood there before the tableau was broken by Sophie’s deceptively soft voice, speaking to her as though she were a child. Your mother’s waiting up for you. You don’t want to tire her out tonight.

Annie bit her lip softly, closing her eyes for a second, trying to center herself. There was absolutely no point in arguing. Still, her voice was a little huskier from tears than she would have liked when she spoke. No, of course not.

She gave all her good friends one last, loving look and a forced smile and then joined the companions who waited, like death, for her arrival.

Chapter 2

Some things nothing could be done about. If Etienne Voland knew anything, it was this. Some pains went straight to the heart, cut into bone—and not even the dearest and closest people could ever truly give solace for those.

Etienne! Remy was calling with friendly determination, as he came up the stairs. You are not a hermit! The world demands your attentions!

Closing his eyes for a second before he started for the bedroom’s door, Etienne sighed. If he let his friend continue on like this, he would disturb Mila’s every paying guest—and, especially considering that she shared all his pains, he couldn’t allow her to shoulder any further burdens.

Opening the door to be greeted by Remy’s usual, warm smile, he tried to return it but knew his effort was half-hearted, at best. While he appreciated the concern, he truly wished that he could have just been left alone.

Still, his friend ignored such wishes, gaze evaluating him. Remy himself looked like he always did, like some stock-character artist to be found in a sidewalk Paris café, which was often much the truth. Etienne had often wondered if the man would live if separated from his black turtleneck, his blond hair in its usual ponytail. All he really needed was a beret and half-smoked cigarette to complete the look.

As Remy’s light blue eyes cast over him, Etienne turned back to take back up his place sitting morbidly on the bed his sister had been kind enough to let him use. He knew that he himself was not living up to his usual standards. He sometimes wondered whether those three days of homelessness with his baby sister before he was taken in by the deeply-loving Volands could really have affected him so lastingly, but he rarely ever even allowed a wrinkle to live on him, neat and well-presented to a fault. Now, his long auburn hair had been only half-brushed for at least three days, tucked haphazardly behind his ears, his clothes whatever was convenient and wasn’t too dirty. Anything else just seemed like far too much effort.

It was clear that Remy saw all of this, shaking his head, as Etienne stared at the floor. This isn’t like you, my friend, he whispered. However, his look softened a little as the mournful man looked up to him. E-ti-enne—it’s been ten months, almost a year. His gaze pleaded. You can’t let this change your whole life.

The grieving man rose to go lean against the window, unable to bear witnessing the sympathy in his friend’s eyes. Several seconds passed in silence, before a whisper passed his lips. It has.

A small sigh came in return. But your job, your career—the children.

Etienne didn’t move, his whole body slumped in defeat. One forearm braced against the windowsill, the back of his index finger running repeatedly over his lips. Even if he tried to hide his pain, Remy would know, so he made no such efforts.

Still, his friend pressed. You can’t let all of that go to waste.

Trying once more for control over his sorrow, Etienne closed his eyes. What he was about to do was right, he knew, but it hurt him nonetheless. There were so many dear people he would leave behind.

I have so little family left—Mila, her husband, her child. He trailed off before swallowing again. They’re all that’s left to me now. Opening his eyes once more, he forced himself to turn back to meet the concerned blue gaze before him. I have to be close to them.

If Remy felt any pain at having been left out of the list, he didn’t show it, clearly focused on other things. "You only work a