by Mallory Rush
Rachel was strangely grateful for the five days that had passed since she'd been a free woman in Vegas. Nothing could be worse than what she'd endured on the plane. Knowing that, she could deal with this, no problem.
A sense of calm enveloped her. The guards departed, leaving her hands bound but unhooked. Why, she wasn't sure. Maybe it was her condescending glare or the lack of struggle which accompanied it. Whatever, it apparently increased her value, judging from the mercenary smile the auctioneer turned on her. The terrible little man pried the wrapped sheet from one breast and then two. The audience ooohed and ahhhed their beastly approval. The auctioneer winked and she managed not to spit in his face.
Instead, Rachel thrust her breasts out, taking pride in her feminine sculpture. More than pride, she taunted them with it while Rand maintained his outward cool...
Which disintegrated before her stunned eyes.
So attuned to his body talk and the silent support of his gaze, she was struck dumb by his metamorphosis. First, the steady rhythm of his breathing became agitated to the point of panting. Then the clear focus of his eyes on hers lowered to her upper nakedness and became transfixed so long that he appeared to be in a trance. His tongue snuck out, but rather than retreating it repeatedly traced a hungry path, around and around as if it were her inner thighs he lapped up rather than his own dry lips.
Her savior was suddenly no savior, but the devil himself considering the spoils of his ill-gotten gain. She was horrified to realize that Rand had relinquished his ally's support to stare at her breasts with a hunger unrivaled by his lust in the dust colleagues.
A rope dropped down and she felt the auctioneer lifting her arms to a hook.
"I can do it myself you cheap little runt," she hissed, taking her anger out on the nearest scapegoat.
"So you can talk after all," he said in halting English. "Cooperate and I won't hurt your dignity."
"You can go to hell. Dignity's something you don't have to give." Warm air swirled around her breasts and she ignored the agony of feeling more exposed than she had during the two exams. Rachel raised her hands with a grace befitting a ballerina and defiantly notched her chin.
She shut out the rippling noise of the buyers, the drone of the auctioneer's wheedling voice. If only she could do the same with her hurt, her deep disappointment in Rand, looking at her as if he was more crazed than rest of them. After the time they'd spent together, the bonds they'd forged she'd believed to be friendship, how could he turn into this—this animal? The fine edge of longing and unspoken emotions never left, but never in her wildest dreams had she expected this kind of betrayal. It made her want to weep.
The hell she'd cry. Rand could destroy her illusions of him, and the disgusting men in his ranks could drool all over themselves while she was helpless to cover her near nakedness, but no one could strip away her pride.
Her body was another matter. Without warning, she felt the thin sheet whipped off. An outraged cry ripped from her throat before she could stop it.
"You sleazy little bastard get your grimy hands off me!"
"A spirited virgin, gentlemen. And see the lovely hair between her thighs, matching that of her scarlet head."
"You stupid jerk, despicable creep, low down, no good—"
"But let us not stop there." He yanked her around and stroked her buttocks.
Gone was her earlier calm. In its place came a flash point rage. Rachel was on tiptoe but she had her balance. With a quick move of self-defense she pulled up and kicked sideways, landing a blow to his groin.
He bent over, groaning and cursing and calling for a whip.
"One hundred thousand American dollars!" came the shout.
"One hundred and fifty!" echoed another.
Voices slashed her ears, dozens of men scrambling to outbid their competition with rubles, yen, pounds and marks.
But why wasn't she hearing Rand through the mayhem while she dangled helpless, naked, and up for grabs?
The auctioneer was quickly gaining his footing, turning her around, gesturing to her breasts, her thighs, then stepping a safe distance away.
"Five hundred thousand American dollars from Prince Dominique," he said triumphantly. "Do I hear a higher bid?"
Rachel stared in shock and fury at Rand. His eyes were almost glazed, even from here she could see his labored breathing. What she saw was the look of a man in the throes of passion, but it was overlayered by the clench of his jaw, raw anger simmering in his gaze.
Unlike the rest of the men who had remained seated throughout the fanfare, he stood.
"One million American dollars."
Every head present turned at the commanding sound of his projected voice.
Then silence was followed by murmurs of speculation and respect for the amount of money.
The auctioneer called for silence.
"One million American dollars from the new member. Do I hear more? One million and a half?"
The question was directed to the prince. Rachel held her breath, or at least what she had left.
The prince shook his head.
"The beautiful woman goes for one million." The greedy slaver nodded to Rand. "Come and claim your prize."
She watched as he strode forward, his eyes fluctuating between her face and her naked body. When he gained the stage he stooped and swept up the sheet. He positioned himself between her and the sea of watching eyes, shielding her from every view but his.
"You will enjoy taming her?" said the auctioneer with a sly smile.
"I will. But don't ever let me catch you touching her like that again or you'll be using this sheet for a shroud. Beat it and don't come back until we're gone."
Rand spanned the sheet wide between his arms, but he didn't immediately cover her with it. The spread of white muslin blended into his robe, the hood of it contrasting starkly against his dark skin. Her mind was spinning, casting him as Valentino in The Sheik. But he was no actor, he was a man she'd spent the last month with, craving the touch he withheld and wondering if she might be falling in love.
This was not the same man. This was a dark stranger more dangerous than the one who'd asserted his hold with a sexy ploy at her door. As he did then, he whispered now, "You're okay, angel. I'm here, and I'll protect you."
He was protecting her all right. Protecting her from prying eyes only to devour her with his own. She bared her teeth, not trusting herself to speak.
His gaze hungrily trailed her body and she was torn between fury and a quivering spark of... desire? No. How could she even think it? She wanted to tear his head off for daring to look at her like this, for subjecting her to such degradation, even if no one else could see.
"Remember the Oscar," he said in a low, gritty voice. Slowly, he put the sheet to her back, his hands grazing over her fevered skin, relaying a proprietary feel that spoke of the protection he'd promised. As he wrapped the covering beneath her raised arms she could feel him shaking.
His fingertips hovered over the top of a breast, then slowly closed the distance as though drawn by a force beyond his control. He touched the tip of a single nipple. His touch became a stroke. Once. Twice. A rolling, gentle squeeze that laced with his tortured groan.
Rachel was appalled to feel both nipples harden and thrust out as if seeking more. Her legs shook and her belly tightened. A tiny, mewling sound escaped between her parted lips to answer his inarticulate murmurings.
Why wasn't she fighting him for all she was worth? She didn't want this, not this way. She abhorred him for what he was doing, for making her acknowledge a shameless facet of herself in this obscene place, making his conquest in the privacy of her home seem trivial and pale.
She wanted cling to him. She wanted to bolt and return to a time that was safe and familiar, when she was late for the rent and had never laid eyes on Rand Slick.
"Mine." The word was a thick whisper and if she hadn't seen his lips move she might have thought she'd imagined it.
Quickly then, as though h
e didn't trust what he might do next, Rand wrapped the sheet around her twice and secured it between her breasts. She was still dangling from the hook when he pulled her insistently against him.
Even beneath the folds of his robe she could feel him hard, pulsing. He unhooked her arms and she fell limp against him. The bindings stayed her from thrusting against his chest. Her bound hands caught between them. She squirmed to break free but he subdued her by quickly shifting. Her fists pressed intimately into the harbor of their nearly joined groins. She was too close to hurt him, and too shocked by the stunning arousal the feel of him evoked to even try.
Vaguely, she realized the audience was craning for a better view as he fanned a palm over her buttocks and tangled a hand in her hair.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, fighting tears of horror and need.
"I'm sorry for what you went through. Dear God, I am. But I'd be lying if I apologized for this."
His mouth came down on hers. Greedily. Possessively. His kiss was compelling and tender and fierce. His lips slanted against hers, rubbed them, learned them, and ate at them. Then the tip of his tongue dipped into the groove of her lower lip before taking it into the warm haven of his mouth. Such was his wooing until her teeth unlocked and with a pleased murmur he pressed between them, a svelte glide that was so hungry it intensified her own mounting greed.
An absorbing, ravenous kiss. A shared kiss of mutual need held too long in check. He was making her crazy, yes, yes, she must be losing her mind. Because if only her hands were unbound she would grip him to her, stroke her hands through his hair, wind her legs about his waist and...
And why had they waited so long for this rapture, this physical bond that felt like whispered words of a deeper bonding, an aching, unspoken vow? She couldn't remember, something about pride and manipulation and threats, a twisted part of the puzzle that drew blood.
Then she lost even that memory. He was kissing her madly and she was opening her mouth, begging for more while she searched for the thread. Pride, jagged edges, so twisted up...
Through her moans the faraway rush of rippling applause spread in her ears. It cut through and she remembered where she was and Good Lord, if she didn't stop this insanity she wouldn't even care if he took her right here.
Rachel tore her lips from his and reared back. Eyes that lapped at her with dark, ominous fire stayed her from demanding the release she didn't want.
"Let's get out of here and go home," he said hoarsely.
She tried valiantly to keep something of her independence and pushed the words past her kiss swollen lips.
"First you call that ingrate back to give you a knife and cut me loose."
"So you can slap me? The answer is no." Rand hoisted her over his shoulder, one hand locked over the backs of her legs, the other cupping her behind with a possessive caress.
"Stop it," she demanded as the sound of a flute and a sitar blended into the scent of spice and uncurbed desire. "You have no right to do this."
"The papers that are waiting say that I do."
"You don't own me. I don't belong to you."
"I guess that's something we'll both have to find out. I just spent a million bucks to have the chance and from what I saw on that stage, the answer's going to be worth every dime."
"This isn't a joke and I'm in no mood for theatrics. Put me down. Do you hear me? Put me down!"
He ignored her screams of demand but as they exited to a standing ovation she heard him chuckle and say, "Once we're home, angel, we'll take our bows."
Chapter 10
"Dammit, Rand, stop! Let me walk!" Rachel hung over his shoulder, smacking his rear with her bound hands since he had the rest of her in a clench. They'd passed through a massive entryway of a house, been bowed to by servants who promptly disappeared, and now he was carrying her up a marbled staircase and through some kind of maze. She felt him shift, kick, and heard a door slam.
"Did you hear me? I demand that you put me down right this instant!"
"If you say so."
Suddenly she felt herself hauled upright and he cradled her in his arms. Then he stooped low and let go. She fell a short distance before the softest sensation greeted her back.
Rachel sank into what might have been a pillow of clouds. A white canopy that was so huge it might have been a tent was fanned overhead. A quick glance to either side informed her she was laying on a bed, the likes of which she'd never seen before. Round, voluptuous, a gigantic silk pin cushion.
Rand's face, partially concealed by the hood, stared down at her. His dark brows were knitted together, making his eyes seem like twin obsidian stones glittering darkly beneath two horizontal slashes.
Rachel couldn't catch her breath and she knew it wasn't from the gentle fall. It was the way he was staring down at her, seemingly bigger than life from her vantage point, dominating the room with his powerful frame enfolded by the robe. A grand sultan in his domain. The torched expression he wore as he visually stroked her told her more than she wanted to know:
He wanted her. Now. And they were all alone.
Suddenly, she wished for even the company of the disgusting crowd.
Rachel followed his gaze and realized the sheet had come loose. Her breasts were covered, barely, and so were her hips, even more barely. Her legs were exposed to her upper thighs and sprawled out in a most undignified way. She squirmed, trying to pinch them together. Her eyes dilated with alarm when she realized she'd succeeded, only to loosen the sheet more. Her breasts were all but spilling out and she could feel the rush of warm air tickling her feminine parts.
"Welcome home," he said in a thick voice. "I hope you find our bed comfortable."
"Our bed?" Her apprehension soared, as did her indignation that he was taking advantage of this. Staring at her with even more heated rawness than he had at the auction and making no effort to disguise what it did for his masculine urges. "The audience is gone, Rand. You can drop the act."
"Hardly. The act's just begun." He thrust his hood back and sat on the edge of the bed. It gave with his weight and rolled her against him.
"You're a civilized man... aren't you?" she said desperately, fearful she might soon find out just how barbaric he could get. "Quit looking at me like that!"
"Like I want to strip off what's left of that sheet in no civilized manner?" he said in a booming, authoritarian tone.
"Stop it," she hissed. "I don't like this."
"Good. Very good," he whispered, then resumed a forceful volume. "Whether you like it or not, makes no difference. We play by my rules, woman, not yours."
"Your rules!" She struggled to move away but he caught her upper arms and hoisted her upright until they were almost nose to nose; mouth to mouth. Her rapid, choppy breathing mingled with his, maddeningly deep and even. "Get your hands off me and take your rules right out the door with you."
"I have no intentions of leaving," he bellowed. "Now we're going to do this my way. Give me your hands."
"Why? So you can loop them around a hook and dangle me from the bed while you rape me?" She heard something that sounded close to hysteria rise in the pitch of her voice.
"Don't be ridiculous. When I choose to take you to bed, you'll be more than ready." His words were arrogant but his gaze reflected an intensity of emotion she was too unstrung to decipher.
Again, he spoke low. "Listen to me, Rachel. You weren't the only one in agony while you were being paraded on that stage. It practically tore my guts out to watch what they did to you. Every time I think about that creep touching you, I—" His grip tightened while his eyes took on a distant sheen. Was it anger? Frustration? "I've been in control for so long that... God, I forgot how it feels to be without it, to be helpless to protect someone that I—"
She whimpered as his fingers bit deep into her shoulders. His vision seemed to refocus to the present and he abruptly let go. "I didn't mean to hurt you." He swept a soothing stroke over the red imprint he'd left and murmured, "I'll do what I can to make
up for what you went through, and I'd say that excludes rape. So, relax. We're home. You're safe." Then he whispered brusquely, "The wrists?"
When she hesitated he took it on himself to place them in his lap. Working the fine knots, his fingers were deft and agile, belying their size and strength. Would she ever understand him? This paragon of mystery whose touch veered from harsh to sensitive while his expressions and words rushed in so many different directions she couldn't keep up.
For the moment she was still too jangled from the ordeal to even try. All she knew was that he'd wanted to protect her and as vulnerable as she was now, half-nude and responding to his gruff concern, she wanted to protect herself from her protector.
Distance. She had to get some distance from this dark edge of intimacy that she'd succumbed to on the stage with an abandon that she was too ashamed of to remember, even while she could feel it threaten to overtake her again as they sat too close on the bed.
"You might have hated it, Rand, but I was the one being terrified, disgraced and—"
"And you never showed it," he said quietly. "I was proud of you, Rachel. You should be proud of yourself for handling it as well as you did. Oh, and by the way, great shot. Made me want to whistle and clap when you decked that munchkin."
"Are you as proud of yourself? The way you stared at me, keep staring at me, makes you look as depraved as the rest of those slobbering heathens."
"That's because I was." He flung the rope to the gleaming marble floor. "And still am, though I imagine you gathered that with your hands in my lap. But as for your question, the answer is no. I wasn't proud of myself. I was ashamed. And more aroused than I've ever been in my life. Be honest, Rachel. Didn't you feel the same things too?"
She didn't want to be honest with either of them and so she looked away. He already knew anyway, no need to give him the satisfaction of confirming their base bond.