Evening Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “Remember,” Signora Lamponni continued, “when it is your turn on the dais, you may remove your clothing seductively, or play the innocent. You are all virgins, despite your varied skills, and it is that fact that makes you so valuable. When you are alone with your gentleman, you will, of course, behave in whatever manner he wishes. You are all trained well enough to know what to do.”

  “What a pity that one cannot grow a maidenhead every day,” one of the girls said.

  “We would all be rich in a month,” another added, laughing.

  Signora Lamponni clapped her hands. “Enough chatter. It is time for your debut, ladies.”

  Giana trailed slowly after the girls into a large salon, brightly lit with candle chandeliers. It was a magnificent room, with high vaulted ceilings adorned with classical scenes, and beautiful marble fireplaces set at each end. Rich crimson velvet curtains covered the long windows, and lush carpets were scattered over the inlaid parquet floors. Everything smelled of beeswax and lemon. The furniture was light and delicate, in the French style. At the far end of the salon was a square dais. About thirty men, all dressed in elegant black evening wear, were seated about the room in small groups, some smoking and drinking, all conversing with their friends, as if they were spending a relaxing evening at home. When the girls filed in, a hush fell over the room.

  Giana heard a sudden laugh, and a burst of renewed conversation. The girls appeared to study the gentlemen, as if deciding who pleased them most. Giana watched them preen proudly and swish their wide skirts as they walked toward the men, engaging smiles on their lips.

  Giana’s hands were clammy and cold, and she rubbed them on the skirt of her gown. She could not imagine displaying herself to these strange men, inviting them to assess her charms, inviting them to buy her. She saw Daniele, but when she started toward him, he frowned and shook his head. Giana knew she could not continue standing like a rigid puppet, doing nothing. She felt fear bubble up within her. She was being a fool, she told herself, thrusting the fear away. These men could do nothing to her; she had but to speak to them as she did at Madame Lucienne’s. It would all be over soon.

  Alexander Saxton motioned to a servant and took a glass of sherry. He sipped the smooth wine and watched with indolent amusement as the bevy of girls giggled and pranced among the men, their faces alight with anticipation. Anticipation of earning a good deal of money, he thought with sudden annoyance, stubbing out his cigar. Why in the name of heaven he had agreed to come to this ridiculous display of Roman decadence was beyond him.

  “Now, there’s a little sprite,” Santelo Travola remarked to him, pointing toward a raven-haired girl whose full breasts pressed against the high-necked white gown she wore. “The bidding on that little beauty will be strung out, you may be certain. None of the gentlemen would want to deprive the others of seeing her lovely body.”

  “She already looks like a whore,” Alex said.

  “You are too severe, my friend. Ah, one of the girls is coming this way. I beg you to be civilized, Alex.”

  Giana stopped suddenly and sucked in her breath in consternation. She recognized him as the man she had seen at Madame Lucienne’s with Margot, the one who had made her feel as though it were she beneath him. Her face flushed scarlet at the memory. He looked up and caught her eyes with a frankly uninterested gaze. Then he smiled, a lazy, mocking smile, and cocked his forefinger toward her.

  Giana looked about wildly, but Daniele was speaking to another gentleman and paying her no heed. She looked back at him, and saw his black brow arch, frankly assessing, as he watched her hesitate.

  A gentleman spoke to her, but she paid him no heed. She knew she had to do something, talk to one of them. She squared her shoulders, drew to an uncertain halt in front of him and gazed into his dark eyes. There was something about him, a barely leashed savagery that warred with the elegance of his dress. He was too large, too overpowering.

  “What is your name?” he asked, negligently sipping his sherry.

  “My name is Helen.”

  “I suppose it is as good as any.”

  He changed suddenly from Italian to English. “Do you wish a glass of sherry?”

  Giana shook her head.

  “You are not trying terribly hard to please me Helen.”

  She said sharply in English, without thinking, “I do not care if I please you, sir.”

  “Ah, the wench has claws. Beware, Alex. This one does not seem impressed with your charms.”

  “Or my money, it would appear, Santelo,” Alex said, his eyes sweeping over Giana. “You are English,” he said, his eyes studying her face.

  Giana reeled back, realizing too late that she was being stupid. She answered swiftly in French, her voice curt, “Non, monsieur, je suis française. Il faut—excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît.”

  “No, I will not excuse you,” he said in English. “I wish to speak with you, Helen. Sit down, here, beside me.”

  She looked at his outstretched hand, bent her trembling legs, and sat down.

  “Now, what is an English girl, an English virgin, doing selling her wares in Rome?”

  “What are you, an American, doing in Rome?” she shot back in her clipped English, realizing it was useless to pretend.

  “Unlike you, my dear, I am buying, not selling,” he said in a mocking drawl. “You recognize my accent, I see.”

  Giana saw his dark eyes were glittering with interest; he was beginning to enjoy himself. She realized she had no experience with a man like this—he scared her to her toes. She fanned her hands in front of her and prepared to rise. After all, he couldn’t touch her, it was against the rules. “If you will excuse me, sir.”

  “We have already been through that, Helen. You will stay. I wish it. What color is your real hair?”

  Her eyes flew to his face, and in an unconscious gesture she touched her fingers to the soft auburn curls over her ear.

  “So it is a wig. I thought as much. Somehow the blue eyes don’t quite fit with the auburn hair, and there is not one freckle to mar your beautiful white skin.” He leaned toward her, as if he were going to touch her hair, and she jerked back, terrified. He frowned at her suddenly pale face, his black brows rising upward.

  “I applaud your approach,” he said slowly. “It is quite refreshing, like a trapped, innocent little doe, or perhaps Santelo is right, you’re a little kitten, with claws.”

  “I am certainly not an animal,” she said, “and I have no approach,” she added, running her tongue over her dry lips. She was quite unaware it was a very sensual gesture.

  He laughed. “Do you not, my dear? It was you who pretended interest in me, if you will recall. When I saw you wished to make me the object of your, ah, desire, I decided to be polite.”

  “In truth, I don’t like you,” Giana said.

  “You become more fascinating with each insult.” He paused a moment, and studied her flushed face. “How old are you, Helen?”

  “I am seventeen, and you, I daresay, are quite old.”

  “Twenty-seven. Ancient, I suppose, to one of your tender years. But look about you, Helen. I am one of the youngest men here. Would you not prefer losing your prized, quite expensive maidenhead to me rather than one of these other paunchy gentlemen?”

  He can’t touch me, she thought, and I am safe, for Daniele will buy me. He believed her a whore, and though he seemed to be drawn to her, she sensed he disliked her, and it angered as well as shamed her. She struck out at him. “You, sir, are vulgar, but I suppose it is to be expected, you being an American. Yes, I am English, but of course you know that already.”

  “And you, Helen, play the part of the outraged well-bred young English lady to perfection. I applaud your acting talents.”

  “Careful, Alex, the girl likely has spikes on her maidenhead.”

  Giana merely stared at the Italian who was sitting forward in his chair beside them.

  “She appears not to like you either, Santelo,” Alex said. He sat back in his cha
ir and crossed his long legs. He tapped his fingertips together and regarded her with great interest. He decided she intrigued him.

  “To show I’m a good sport, I’ll offer one lira for her,” Santelo said, grinning widely to show a space between his two front teeth.

  Giana could not seem to tear her eyes away from his tapping fingertips, the same blunt-ended fingers that had caressed Margot’s white body. He leaned toward her, and she jerked back, nearly unbalancing herself. She saw one of the girls, a chestnut-haired, green-eyed beauty, touch Santelo’s arm, drawing his attention.

  “Now we can have a little privacy,” Alex said. He sat back again, and watched her with ease. “ Somehow you don’t look like a Helen. What is your real name? Molly? Daisy?”

  “That’s right,” she said in a cold, clear voice. “My name is Molly. Very astute of you.”

  His white teeth flashed through his grin. “You have an agile tongue. Let us hope that your tongue and your lovely mouth are as skilled in other areas as in speech.”

  Giana drew back as if he had struck her, her face paling.

  “Ah, our lack of innocence is finally revealed. Tell me, Helen or Molly, do you enjoy pleasuring men in that way?”

  She shook her head, mute.

  “What do you enjoy?”

  “I enjoy embroidering altar cloths.”

  Alex stared at her, his head cocked to one side. This one was a minx, smart-tongued and saucy. He itched suddenly to touch her, to find out what it would be like to bend her to his will, to make her cry out for him. He heard the girl beside Santelo giggle loudly at one of his friend’s inane jests and was pleased that this girl, Helen or Molly or whatever her name was, had sought him out. She was a challenge and he enjoyed challenges. He was beginning to regret that he had to leave for Paris in the morning.

  “Tell me, my dear, once you have lost your most prized possession, what will you do?”

  For a moment Giana did not know what he was talking about. Alex watched her eyes widen, ever so innocently, he thought, congratulating her silently. To his surprise, she stiffened, and he saw understanding in her eyes, and something else, something like pain.

  “That is none of your business,” Giana snapped, drawing herself up. She thought she heard him chuckle, and wished she could strike that smug, confident smile from his face.

  “Perhaps you would like to come to Paris with me? I am most generous, if you please me, and would buy you pretty gowns and the like.”

  Please you? “I would be delighted to see you off to hell. You would likely feel quite at home there, in the company of other lechers.”

  He drew back, momentarily annoyed at her blatant rudeness. The hunter in him rose to the fore, and he laughed, and taunted her. “I do not think that whores ascend to the heavens, Helen. After all, if it were not for whores, there would be no need for lechers.”

  “On the contrary, if there were no lechers, there would be no need for whores. It is men who make the rules, not women.”

  He reached out suddenly and grasped her wrist in his fingers. She gasped in fear and tried to pull away from him. “You can’t touch me,” she hissed as his fingers tightened. “Let me go.”

  “You are right, of course,” he said, releasing her. “The merchandise is not to be handled, save by the buyer.”

  Giana scrambled to her feet. “I am not an animal and I am not merchandise. I . . . I do not wish to speak with you anymore.” Before he could stop her, she turned and fled, her wide skirts swishing between the chairs.

  Santelo whistled. “What did you say to the girl, Alex? Never have I seen such an ill-mannered chit at the Flower Auction.”

  Alex stared after her thoughtfully. She had managed to skirt the rest of the gentlemen and was standing with her back pressed tight against one of the marble fireplaces.

  “She dished out insults faster than I could return them. She wants taming, and manners.”

  “Perhaps Signore Cippolo will buy her,” Santelo said, pointing toward a heavy older gentleman whose attention had veered toward her.

  Alex looked closely at the man’s dissipated face and felt a knot of distaste in his belly. Cippolo would hurt her; Alex could see it in his eyes.

  “Ah,” Santelo said, “the auction begins.”

  Signora Lamponni stood on the dais, a tall hat in her hand, shaking it gently.

  “The girls will draw numbers, to determine their order,” Santelo explained softly to Alex.

  Alex watched Helen reach into the hat with the other girls and pull out her number. He thought her hand was shaking. Alex shook his head. Dammit, the chit couldn’t be frightened. All the girls were here because they wanted to be.

  “And now, the little doves will leave us,” Signora Lamponni announced in her deep voice, waving the girls out of the salon, “until their numbers are called. I hope, gentlemen, that you approve this season’s offerings.”

  There was a murmur of approval.

  “We will now begin the bidding. Number one is Claudia, a delightful—well, delight, from Milan.”

  Claudia pranced onto the dais and curtsied to the gentlemen.

  “Isn’t she lovely, gentlemen? What is my bid for this charming little virgin?”

  Someone called out a hundred lire. There was some laughter, then another bid. Claudia slowly pulled off one of her long gloves. She grinned and tossed it to a gentleman who sat near the dais.

  Giana watched Claudia from behind the curtain. She was the center of attention, and seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. She heard bids in francs, lire, and pounds.

  She looked down at her number—four. What would Daniele do, she thought wildly, if she simply refused to take her turn on the dais? What could he do? She tried to picture Randall in her mind, as she had many times before when she was frightened, but somehow his image would not weave itself together, and she could feel nothing but uncertainty. She felt a tear trickle down her cheek.

  Claudia was standing only in her petticoats and chemise. There were raucous cheers from the men, and the bidding slowed. The men knew the game, and none would end it until Claudia was naked.

  Claudia’s petticoats dropped to the floor, one after the other. Soon she was standing only in her chemise, a lacy affair that reached just to her knees. Her silk stockings were held up by frilly black garters.

  There was another bid, in lire, and Giana quickly reckoned how much it was in English currency. Two hundred pounds.

  Giana’s face went perfectly white when Claudia at last stood naked. Her hands rested enticingly on her hips, her shoulders pressed forward to push her breasts closer together. She was running her tongue over her pouting lips.

  “Two hundred and fifty pounds,” someone yelled, to more applause and laughter.

  “Do you wish to assure yourself that the lovely Claudia is a virgin, signore?” Signora Lamponni asked.

  “Why not?” the man cried out amid the applause. He heaved himself onto the dais.

  Now Giana understood why there was a sofa. Claudia walked to it, her hips swaying provocatively, and lay down on her back. The man waved his hand in the air and drew a curtain between him and the audience.

  Giana turned away, clutching at her stomach. Nauseating bile rose in her throat.

  “Dio,” the man shouted, pushing the curtain aside, “she’s ready for me and a virgin.”

  The man paid Signora Lamponni while Claudia’s clothing was gathered up by a servant. They left together through a small door behind the dais.

  “Number two,” Signora Lamponni called out. The girl next to Giana giggled and winked, and walked onto the dais.

  Giana turned away and sank into a chair. She lowered her head and stared down at the tips of her white leather slippers. It seemed but a few moments had passed when she noticed the two remaining girls were staring at her. “Who is number four? It is you,” the girl said to Giana. “Quickly, the gentlemen are growing restless.”

  “Number four,” Signora Lamponni called out again, her voice more
strident.

  Giana felt someone take her arm and pull her up from the chair. She felt a hand in the small of her back, shoving her toward the dais. She walked forward in a daze, her eyes fastened to the floor in front of her.

  “Ah, there is the little wildcat.”

  “Watch out for this one, she’s a hellion.”

  “This is Helen,” Signora Lamponni said. “She is French, a delightful addition to this season’s offerings.”

  “So delightful that she’ll scratch your eyes out,” Santelo shouted out, enjoying himself.

  “I’ll take her,” Signore Cippolo called out. “One thousand lire.”

  “Take her with what, a whip?”

  Giana stood frozen as the man laughed, her eyes still on the floor. She heard Signora Lamponni hiss, “Take off your glove, you stupid girl.”

  Giana raised her eyes and met Daniele’s impassive gaze. Slowly she drew off her right glove.

  Alex watched her, frowning. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought she was frightened out of her wits. She looked like a puppet, all stiff and wooden, her movements awkward and graceless.

  Lazily he called out, “Three hundred dollars.”

  “The American is used to taming savages,” someone shouted.

  Signore Cippolo eyed the American from beneath his heavily hooded eyes. “Four hundred.”

  Giana heard Signora Lamponni cursing under her breath. “The other glove, you witless child.”

  Giana sent an agonized glance toward Daniele as the other glove fell to the floor in front of her.

  “Five hundred.”

  “The little wench is shy.”

  “It is a good act.”

  “Take off your gown,” Signora Lamponni growled. Dio, the little fool could ruin her reputation.

  Giana’s fingers moved numbly toward the fastenings on the bodice of her white gown, and stopped.

  Daniele knew that she would not be pushed further. He had to take his chance, now. In a loud, commanding voice, he shouted, “One thousand dollars.”

  An astounded silence followed Daniele’s bid. Giana dropped her arms to her sides, relief flooding her.