There wasn’t a price tag.
“Amanda,” I whispered. “There’s no tag.”
“What do you mean?” she whispered back, joining in my conspiracy even though she clearly had no idea what it was about.
“How do we know how much it costs?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes at me. “They’ll know at the checkout counter,” she said, and went back to looking through the rack.
Well, indeed. I forced my breath out, and let it go. It wasn’t me we were shopping for, after all.
“No,” I said to the next one. “That’s no better than what you have now. Try this.” I handed her a halter top with rhinestones—at least I hoped they were rhinestones—sewn around the edges.
Holding it up and posing in front of the mirror, she tried to hide her frown.
“You’re right,” I said. Amazing that they would sell something that trashy here. “Try this one instead.”
The blue accented her eyes, but she still seemed dubious.
“You have to try it on in the dressing room,” I explained. “After you take your blouse off, you’ll see how much better it looks.”
She blushed a little. “I’m not sure I know how to put it on,” she said. “I don’t own anything like this.”
“It’s not that different.” I laughed. “I’ll help you. Here, take these shorts, too.”
In the dressing room cubicle, watching as she slipped out of her blouse and slacks, I was again seized by that mischievous demon-spirit.
“You can’t wear a bra with this, either,” I told her, and began matter-of-factly unfastening hers. She stood there helplessly while her perfect breasts sprung free. Looking at her in nothing but a pair of thin white panties made me feel in control, like she was a doll I was playing dress-up with.
Outside the cubicle, we stood in front of the three-way mirror. I adjusted her hair, bent her head in a magazine pose, and we both examined her reflection critically.
In three different views we could see her nipples pressing up from underneath the thin blue cloth, her firm, round breasts wrapped like a present. The shorts fit her like she had been poured into them, and her buttocks were as contoured as her breasts. Between halter-top and shorts was only her tiny waist and flawless skin, below them her lissome legs stretched to the floor.
If I had a spoon, I would have eaten her like an ice-cream sundae. Instead, I sighed in satisfaction. Oh Petros, I thought. Poor, poor Petros. He had no idea what was coming.
“Will he like it?” Amanda asked.
“Do you like it?” I countered.
“I feel almost naked,” she confessed.
“There’s your answer,” I grinned. “Now let’s try on these,” I said and steered her towards some ridiculously cute but very chic sailor outfits.
I spent hours dressing and undressing her, posing her in front of mirrors, ripping clothes off and stuffing her into others, twirling her through the aisles. She complied eagerly, living the role she had been born and bred to, a fine show horse being put through her paces.
We settled on a deep stack of clothes, including three different bikinis, the most exotic one a tiny black number with spaghetti straps and loops that left it open at the sides.
The cream on the pile was a dinner gown in sheer white silk that hung off the shoulders and managed to conceal less than the bikini. In the shop’s bright lights she might as well have been naked.
“In candlelight it will be fine,” I assured her. “But of course, you won’t want to wear these under it.” I snapped the elastic on her underpants.
“Of course,” she said, turning my lewdness into sophistication. “We’ll take this, also,” she said to the shop-girl, and handed her the gown. “And don’t forget those.” She pointed to a pile of clothes I had been trying on during our dress-up extravaganza.
I had set aside the ones I liked best, pretending that I might be able to afford one of them. Not that I could, but I had enjoyed the pretense. “Amanda,” I whispered. “Those were mine.”
“I know,” she said. “You need something to wear on the trip, too.”
“But I don’t have that kind of money,” I protested.
“We don’t need money here,” Amanda reminded me. She didn’t even bother to produce a credit card. At the register, she merely signed a slip of paper, and the smiling girls packed it all into fancy paper bags.
My emotions were in turmoil. I did not know how to accept such a princely—or should I say princessly—gift. No man had ever given me a fraction of that without expecting to use my body in payment. No one had ever given me anything without expecting me to be in their debt. I hid my confusion from Amanda, saying nothing while we waited for a cab. I was quiet while the driver loaded our packages and held the door for us—no smirks from this one, since the shop we were standing in front of branded us as wealthy. I was silent while we drove through the city, and Amanda, bored, put her head in my lap and went to sleep.
Stroking her golden hair, I forced myself to relent. She had not given me anything of hers, I reasoned. It cost her nothing. No doubt she just wanted her maid to look good and not embarrass her with shabby clothes. As her employee, I had to be dressed in finery, to show off how rich she was. It meant nothing.
I made up a lot of reasons until I was able to put my anger aside in a little box labeled Open later—much, much later. But I could not even begin to consider the possibility that she had given so generously out of simple friendship. Having never had love without a price, I did not expect to find it here.
Chapter Five
We flew first-class, of course. I made the most of the free booze. I needed it, still recovering from last night.
With the departure looming over us, Amanda had sought reassurance and comfort in our last make-out session. Our hands had roamed across each other’s bodies with remarkable freedom, and we had kissed with the desperation of co-eds on spring break saying good-bye to their beach-boys. Now, just holding her hand while the plane took off made my heart race.
I was really looking forward to throwing myself at Petros. Or any man, for that matter. This girl-kissing thing was seriously confusing me. But the cabin was utterly devoid of hunky fantasy material, filled with middle-aged businessmen and old ladies. I had only my memories of the magnificent prince, and half a dozen martinis, to take my mind off of Amanda’s soft touch.
Landing in Athens, still loopy from the cocktails, my heart went into overdrive. This was it, show time for my little princess. We stalked off the runway like hungry lionesses, ready to pounce. But our prey was too wily. We were met by a chauffeur instead of the man.
Something struck me as wrong from the moment he opened the door for us. Climbing inside, waiting while our voluminous luggage was piled in the trunk, it nagged at me. The chauffeur was polite, yes, but he wasn’t quite personable enough. The limo was clean and neat, of course, but a little faded, and the mini-bar was stocked with popular brands, not exotic ones.
As we pulled away from the curb, it hit me—the limo was a rental.
Luckily, Amanda was too naïve to notice.
The realization sobered me, but it also explained why our prince had not met us himself. He had too much pride to ride in a rented car and pretend it was his. That was a good sign.
But if the boat was a rental, I was going to do my best to make sure there wasn’t any wedding.
—
I had underestimated Petros’s artistic sense. Meeting us in the airport would have been ordinary and boring. Greeting us at the docks, with the moon high in the sky, the lights of the boats sparkling on the water, and the cool breeze off the shore, was unbelievably romantic. And the ship was vastly more impressive than any car could be. Long, slim, and white, its mast reaching for the stars, and its master climbing through the rigging like a leopard leaping from branch to branch. When he saw us, he dropped to the deck and turned his flashing teeth and eyes on us. We had come to hunt, but now my heart fluttered like the prey.
“A
manda!” he said, affection and joy radiating from his smile so warm that I felt my face flush.
“Petros,” she said, and skipped into his arms.
He bent to kiss her, and I struggled not to smirk as she pulled my little trick. I could see his eyes widen as she pushed up into him. I could even tell the instant her tongue brushed his lips. For some reason, he caught my eye before I looked away, and I knew that he knew I was somehow responsible for this new Amanda.
Good-looking, rich, and perceptive. Just how many qualities did this prince possess?
“Mademoiselle,” he said, taking my hand and bowing. As I was adding incredible politeness to the list of his qualities, he kissed my hand, the briefest touch of his lips gracing my skin, the heat of his breath shocking.
When those black eyes looked up at me, my knees went weak. When his hand dropped away from mine, it felt as if I had been plugged into a thousand-volt power line and only now noticed its absence.
He turned to lead Amanda into the depths of his ship, to the room he had no doubt spent much effort preparing for her. His performance was almost perfect. Only an involuntary twitch of his eyes told me that the electricity had died for him as well when our hands had lost each other. Then the moment was gone, and he was the perfect host, the ideal fiancé, the gracefully confident prince.
But that brief look left me a burning wreck. I followed them silently, keeping my place, while my cheeks burned in shame and grief. Grief that his naked loneliness should be revealed to me, shame that I wanted him so much. I had seen that look before, in my mirror, so many times. So many mornings wasted with whatever pathetic excuse of a boy still snoring in my bed, sleeping off a hangover. So many days I played the part of girlfriend, so many nights I walked through my lines as a lover, hiding my emptiness from everyone and myself.
To see this haunting in his eyes, where there should have been unbridled joy, threatened to overwhelm me with tears. To know that I wanted to take him in my arms and tell him I had felt the same way, all my life until this very instant, terrified me into silence.
Between us stood Amanda and her happiness. I could not destroy her dreams for my own selfish fantasies.
In the stateroom, it was easy to pretend what I had seen was only in my imagination. He laughed and joked with her, held her tenderly, kissed her with gentle passion before he left. In the stillness of his absence, Amanda flung herself onto the bed in a swoon.
“I love him,” she said to the room, and the guilt of my desire stabbed me like a knife.
“He loves you, too,” I said, pretending I did not want it to be a lie. “This stateroom is impossible.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, looking around.
“It’s huge. Boats are small, and everything on them is supposed to be small.” At least, that was what I had read in my travel magazines.
“I think your room is through there,” Amanda said, pointing at the only other door out of the room. “Maybe it’s smaller?”
It wasn’t my room. It was a bathroom, with a tiny shower.
“Oh,” said Amanda.
“I told you boats were small.”
“But there’s only one bed,” she said. It was a double-bed, but compared to the four-poster pavilion she had at home, it looked like a couch.
“I think we have to share,” I suggested. “He probably didn’t expect you to bring someone.” How I wished she hadn’t.
“That will be fun!” she said, her face brightening. “We can whisper secrets under the covers, and read books with flashlights like kids!” She bounced on the bed and laughed at me.
“Did you ever do any of those when you were a kid?” I asked her.
“No.” The brightness faded for a moment. “I always wanted to, but I never had any friends my own age.” And then she brightened again. “But now I have you!”
My heart cracked under the weight of those words. But I meant it when I replied, “Yes, now you have me.” I meant it when she giggled and hugged me, and we kissed liked happy sisters. I meant it even while my eyes watered as I pushed away the memory of Petros’s gaze.
“Are you okay?”
“Just allergies,” I lied, and wiped my eyes. “We should get unpacked. You have a dinner to attend tonight.”
—
We dressed for dinner in our sailors outfits, planning a little joke on the captain. Blue shorts, low-cut white blouses and little blue jackets with gold trim that accented Amanda’s glorious hair. They didn’t flatter me quite so much, and I couldn’t really compete with Amanda’s décolletage, but that was fine by me. I didn’t want any more attention.
Marching into the saloon, we snapped to a salute and pealed out, “Reporting for duty, sir!” in our worst British accents. Throwing our hands to our heads naturally thrust our chests out, and the cool night air put points on them. The men in the room—for it was full of them—stared at us until Petros spoke. Then they turned back into invisible and utterly discreet servants instantly.
“Stand down, Lieutenants,” he ordered us with mock gravity. “The mess hall is informal protocol.”
That exhausted our store of naval expertise, so we resorted to giggles. Petros matched us with an easy grin, and the three of us sat down to eat at the long table.
I couldn’t fault the setting. The tablecloth was spotless, all of the dishes were crystal, and the utensils rang with the clear tone of pure silver. The food that came from that little ship’s kitchen was as fancy as anything I had ever had. And the wine was perfect.
With easy grace Petros dominated the dinner conversation, making us both honored guests and family members at the same time. Only two other men sat with us—the ship’s doctor, who struggled to live up to his role as educated gentleman, and the First Mate, silent and dark as the deep open sea. I was somewhat experienced at the study (and seduction) of men, so I applied my wiles to these two to see what they contained.
I made the doctor blush easily enough, trapping him in unintended flirtations. Under ordinary circumstances I could have had this one between the entrée and dessert, sneaking off to a broom closet even with his wife in the room. But these were not ordinary circumstances. His deference to Petros was not just a paid man’s bowing to the boss.
The First Mate was worse. He treated me like a lady regardless of how risqué I played. Even when I resorted to playing footsie under the table. Calmly he moved his foot away, without remark, almost without noticing. I was not a pretty girl in a skimpy blouse to him, I was something that belonged to something that belonged to Petros.
That something was Amanda. Her polish was natural, and her genuine joy and affection were impossible to resist. The First Mate smiled for her, not just because he thought Petros would want him to. The doctor was overly polite at first, but Amanda put him at ease. We were just one big, happy family, a laughing table of old friends and comfortable mates. It was the performance of my lifetime.
It would have taken an expert to see the flaw. It would have required the most cynical and suspicious of minds to notice that Petros and I did not once catch each other’s eyes. No one at that dinner table was so cold-hearted, so distant, as to see that. I wasn’t even sure Petros noticed.
—
In our cabin, still reeling a little from the wine, Amanda and I debriefed. We laughed about the stern post of the First Mate, the stuttering doctor—the sheer joy of two young beautiful women surrounded and adored by men of status and prestige. We discussed our strategy between giggles, reviewing the mission accomplished and planning the next one.
“You were terrible,” she noted astutely. “Terribly shameless—Petros will think you are utterly wanton.”
“Maybe I am,” I laughed. The Mate was considerably older than I normally considered attractive, but his leathered face had a strength that any woman would love to lean against.
“No you aren’t,” she contradicted me. Foolishly, I thought, for she had no idea how wanton I could be. “You just know it’s perfectly safe. Petros won’t let th
em get away with anything.”
Sadly, I reflected that she was probably right. I would not find any physical comfort from his crew. My orders were to comfort Petros, anyway, to divert his lust from Amanda until they were safely married. How could I ever explain to the Dame that I feared I was not merely a diversion? It sounded ridiculous to even to me.
“We should get to sleep,” I suggested. “I suspect that breakfast comes early on a boat.” Maybe in the depths of slumber I could forget the feelings that smoldered inside of me.
“It’s kind of a small bed,” said Amanda. “I don’t want to disturb you.” She was struggling out of her clothes, still a little tipsy. It was terribly cute, like watching a kitten extract itself from a ball of yarn.
“What do you mean?” I asked, as I helped her undress.
“I haven’t done my practice yet,” she leered up at me, and then giggled.
“Oh…” It was kind of a small bed to be lying next to someone doing that. “Well, I need a bit of fresh air, anyway. I’ll take a stroll on deck and give you a few moments.”
She giggled again, too innocent to blush. I rushed out the door before she could see my face. I was still in shock at my initial reaction.
When she had told me that she wanted to masturbate, my first thought had been how comforting that would be. One more glass of wine and I would have been in that bed with her, seeking the intimacy and pleasure I had always sought from men. One instant of hesitation and I would have quenched my fire on her, drowned my visions of Petros in her golden hair.
Outside, in the cool of the night, with the breeze caressing the boat, the gentle flap of a sail here and there the only sound, I wrapped my arms around myself and fought the tears.
The boat slid gracefully through the water, as if it knew where it wanted to go, patient in its confidence and knowledge of purpose. How I longed to be like the ship. Instead, I shuddered, not from cold but from confusion. The desire for Petros was so strong I could feel his arms around me. My love for Amanda was so overwhelming I could smell the delicate scent she woke up with every morning. I had no idea which one I wanted more, love or lust, friend or mate—but I knew with absolute certainty that I could have neither.
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