Uncover Me

by Linda Barlow

  Chapter 15

  ELLIE

  Nick was away for a while, and I began to feel uneasy as the sun slid into the water and night stalked the land. I reached for the switch of the overhead light, a naked bulb that hung from a wire in the ceiling of the stark little room. With a flash the bulb blew. Shit. I hoped I wouldn't have another claustrophobia attack. I'd been doing so well lately. Especially considering the circumstances. Never before had I had anything that was actually dangerous to worry about.

  I dug my hairbrush out of my pack and began to brush my hair vigorously. I'd never really figured out the cause of my panic attacks. This was common, I knew. Most people had no basis in reality for their anxiety, but I suspected mine had come from puttering around in my mother's archeological digs as a child. Once she had taken me inside a small pyramid in Egypt. We'd had to crawl through a hot passageway that smelled of bat guano. This hadn't bothered Mom at all, but it had freaked me out, and I'd finally balked.

  To get me out, she'd had to turn around, which is hard to do inside a pyramid. She'd dislodged some dirt and some stone, and part of the passageway had crumbled, briefly separating us. I hadn't been able to see her, and I thought I was trapped, abandoned, left alone. I'd had nightmares about it for weeks, and sometimes even now, I dreamed of being stuck forever in a dark narrow passageway.

  The panic attacks had erupted badly towards the end of my college romance with Mark, my only long-term boyfriend. I'd liked Mark, but we had little in common. He was too tidy, too well-organized, too careful to have everything planned out in advance. There was no spontaneity. But he was kind and affectionate toward me, and I'd thought I was in love. He'd never really excited me sexually, though. The things I imagined doing in bed didn't strike a resonant chord with him.

  It wasn't until I'd had a couple of sessions with a counselor—at Mark's insistence—that I began to wonder if the attacks might be a warning, a sign from my subconscious that in sticking with Mark, I'd be flying in the face of my own free-spirited nature.

  It hadn't been easy to break off with him. He'd been so disbelieving and hurt. And for the first couple of weeks I'd felt so guilty that my attacks had increased. But after a few weeks, my relief had been impossible to deny. I'd flown off on my trip to Europe with freedom singing in my heart. And the claustrophobia retreated into the depths.

  Until now.

  Maybe it hadn't been Mark at all. Maybe it was men, period. Maybe it was sex. Maybe it had nothing to do with any of these, and was simply a slight imbalance in my brain chemistry.

  With nervous fingers, I put down the hairbrush and struggled to light the kerosene lamp I found perched upon the table. I was breaking matches and cursing over the task when Nick returned, entering the room silently and coming up so stealthily behind me that I yelped and nearly dropped the lamp.

  "Sorry," he said.

  "You scared me. I didn't hear you."

  "Let me do that." In seconds, he had the lamp burning. The pungent smell of kerosene filled the air.

  "It was getting dark and the overhead light burned out." My voice sounded jumpy, even to myself. "You've been gone for a while. Where were you?"

  His eyebrows lifted. "You can't be questioning my fidelity. You're the only woman within 20 miles."

  I caught my breath. "Don't taunt me."

  Something in his face altered. His hand fell upon my shoulder. It was heavy, hard. "I was joking, slave. You should be naked and kneeling, not questioning where I've been."

  "Sorry, I'm edgy." My fists were clenched in tight little balls, but I knelt since he seemed to expect it. I didn't actually mind it too much. It might be perverse as all hell, but I'd grown to like the feeling of his looming over me. I looked up, following his long legs to his crotch, where I could see the fabric tightening as he turned hard. He liked me on my knees, too. The Perversion Twins meet each other and sparks fly.

  Do you have any idea the price I can command for a young white female?

  "Will you tell me the truth about something?"

  He stroked the top of my head, but he looked wary. "The truth about what?"

  "You told me Nigel is involved in human trafficking."

  "So?"

  "He implied today that you were involved in it, too. Something about selling me to one of your sex trafficking friends?"

  "He was trying to scare you. That's one of the things he does. He's a bully. He always has been."

  "I want to know what you're planning to do with me when this is over."

  "If we both get out alive, you'll be free to go."

  I knew I was pushing it, but I couldn't stop myself. "You and he were talking about me, weren't you? In Turkish. I could tell by the creepy way he was looking at me. Assessing me. I felt as if I was in an auction and he was bidding."

  There was a short silence. Then Nick said slowly, "I told him I was planning to sell you."

  I didn't know whether to panic or to be happy that he had just leveled with me. He must have seen the expression on my face, because he added, "But don't worry." His big hands were caressing my hair. "That's not gonna happen."

  I didn't know whether or not to believe him. "Why did you say it if it's not true?"

  "I want him distracted."

  "Distracted." I was the one who was distracted. I couldn't question him further about the things they'd said without betraying my understanding of Turkish.

  "Obsessing about things that have nothing to do with what he ought to be thinking about."

  "You're using me as bait?"

  That cold look had come down over his features again. I hated it when he did that. I'd seen it often enough to know that it meant I wouldn't get any more answers out of him right now. "I'm sure this is difficult, but you're going to have to trust me. Believe it or not, there is a plan."

  "It better be a good plan," I growled.

  He shrugged. "It's not a great plan, but it's the only one I've got."

  "Can't you tell me the plan? So I don't go blundering about, maybe ruining it by accident?"

  "Turning you into a docile and obedient slave was supposed to prevent your blundering about."

  In that quick, unexpected way of his, his hands shot out and fastened on my upper arms. He pulled me to my feet and backed me toward the nearest wall. He pressed me against it. One of his hands fisted my hair. My scalp burned as he tilted my head back, and, gods forgive me, that burn sent a shaft of excitement shooting right down to my sex. Intimate little muscles clenched in pleasure. I was starting to get off on his rough treatment. I was starting to want it.

  In the dusky light from the hurricane lamp, his face was shadowed, accentuating the harsh lines of his cheekbones, the blatant sensuality of his mouth. I liked his fluid grace; I was drawn by the sight of him, the scent of him, the hard male strength of his muscles, even the rough texture of his work shirt and jeans.

  It swept through me again—that same powerful yearning I'd experienced last night. Without thinking, I lifted my fingers to his face and touched his cheek. It was sand-papery with his evening growth of beard.

  Something blazed in those green eyes, and he reached up and caught my wrist in a grip that bordered on pain. "Don't do that. If you touch me again, that'll be it. I'll take you right here against the wall."

  I could feel my cheeks growing hot.

  "I'm trying to keep my promise, but I don't need the provocation of you stroking my body."

  I twisted against him, hating that it was so hard to prevent myself from just melting into goo. "You're the one who keeps grabbing me."

  He released me and I fled to the open window, letting the evening breezes soothe my burning cheeks. But the room was small, and I could sense the heat of his flesh just inches away. I knew that if I so much as hinted that I was willing, he would carry out his threat. I was willing. I wanted him. I wanted this lean, lovely man to lie down with me and fuck me until I screamed for mercy.

  "Ellie." His tone was low and hoarse, but even his voice drew me. "I'm not
myself around you."

  I felt compelled by the raw feeling in him, the emotional force he was usually so successful at concealing. "Who are you, then?"

  "I don't fucking know. Someone dark. Someone I hardly recognize."

  I turned back to the window, squeezing my eyes shut. I heard his step behind me. I felt his warm hands slide once again over my shoulders. He pulled me back against his body; his arms moved down and encircled my waist.

  His hands slipped down and clamped onto my hipbones, pulling my ass more firmly against his pelvis. Oh shit. He surged against me, hard as iron, his arousal blatant and so damn tempting. I thought about dropping down, as he so frequently ordered, and taking him out. Rolling my tongue over the head. Sliding my lips along the length. Sucking him hard. My pussy muscles tightened and pulsed and I had to swallow a moan.

  He turned me on so much. Damn, I hated the way he turned me on.

  "It is going to happen," he said. "You know that, don't you? We can postpone it, maybe, but that will only make the obsession grow. It'll build and build until we can't control it anymore."

  I shivered, lost in my desire for the man who had kidnapped me. I wasn't even asking myself anymore what was wrong with me for wanting him. I just wanted. Needed. It was becoming unendurable.

  "It's time for dinner," he said, breaking the spell. "They'll all be there, drinking raki and getting rowdy, but we've got to face them." He paused, taking my chin in his hand. "Don't let me down. Do you have a dress you can wear?"

  "Wow, you mean you're going to let me wear clothes? I have a dress, yes."

  "Put it on." He brushed back the hair that was framing my face. To my surprise, he ran a long lock of it through his fingers, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. "I love your hair. And I want to show you off."

  I swallowed. He loved my hair? That made me all feel all melty. "What about this thing?" I indicated the rope collar around my neck.

  "That always stays on, slave."

  Chapter 16

  ELLIE

  A little later, dressed in a silky dress made of synthetic fabric that traveled well in my backpack and a pair of sandals, I accompanied Nick downstairs to dinner. As we walked, he kept his hand locked around my wrist like a manacle.

  Sir Avery and his henchmen ate in a large central room that was smoky, windowless and dark. It reminded me of the great hall of some medieval keep.

  There must have been a generator somewhere on the grounds to produce electricity for cooking and lights, but the wattage in the room was low. I noticed that the dark encouraged the men's stares. My dress was flattering, revealing my slim legs and nipping in about the waist to lend my hips a flare that wasn't entirely natural. It didn't do much for my small breasts, but the neckline was flattering, and sweeping my hair up into a knot had given me a little extra height. It also revealed the rope collar circling my throat, which the males in the gathering eyed with dark interest.

  I felt uncomfortable. I was content to stay close to Nick. His warnings about my being the only female among a group of men had just been words on the yacht, but now I sensed the testosterone simmering as they stared at me. There must have been close to twenty guys in the room. The only friendly face I saw was Metin, who sent me an encouraging grin. He was seated near the other end of the long table, though, so I couldn't talk to him. The rest of the men lounged around, smoking cigarettes and drinking raki, the powerful, anisette-flavored liquor favored all over the Mediterranean region. The more they drank the noisier they became. They also got braver about gawking at me. I kept my eyes down. No one actually touched me, and I kept pretending to understand no Turkish, although some of the muttered comments made me flush.

  At least the food was good. "Who's the cook?" I asked Nick's grandfather, who was seated near me in his wheelchair. The broiled fish, served with its head and tail intact, one dead eye staring opaquely, was tender and fresh. I tried the grape-leaf dolmas, filled with a succulent mixture of rice, currants, pine nuts and mint, and the barbunya beans in olive oil. These, too, were delicious.

  "Mustafa," Sir Avery answered, nodding to a burly, grinning man who was sitting on the other side of the table. "In the beginning everyone took turns, but that was a disaster. Mustafa lost his wife years ago and has been making do for himself ever since. He enjoyed his food, so he was forced to learn to cook."

  "Now that your girl is here, she can cook," someone else suggested.

  "I don't think so," Nick said easily. "I doubt she can equal Mustafa's culinary skills."

  "What's the matter, doesn't she fill your belly with tasty delicacies, Nicholas bey?" someone else shouted. "Or are you and she too busy tasting life's other pleasures in bed?"

  "None of your business, Ahmet," Nick retorted to the skinny young man who'd produced the taunt. He went on to joke with them, while I strove to maintain the quizzical expression of one who doesn't understand what is being said. Nick translated none of this, showing no special consideration to his "slave." At least he didn't make me kneel at his feet, which I had half-expected. He drank raki with the rest of them and laughed at their increasingly coarse and suggestive remarks.

  I was introduced to several of the other men who were sitting around Sir Avery and seemed to be particular friends of his. Erdal, a strong but scholarly-looking man who had apparently worked with Nick's grandfather for years; Aslan, whose name meant lion, which seemed appropriate, since he had long hair and a thick reddish beard that made him resemble one; and Engin, a pleasant-faced young man in his twenties who knew some English and seemed eager to practice it with me.

  I avoided engaging the six men at the far end of the table. "They're Nigel's crew," Nick told me under his breath. They gave me sinister stares and did not speak to me.

  I could tell Sir Avery's men were fond of Nick. My captor was not as expansive and charming as the always smiling, always hearty Nigel, but he was warm to the men, and he took their teasing with good grace. Why not? He was one of them. A smuggler, a crook. I wondered if they knew he'd once been a teacher of Latin and ancient Greek. I tried in vain to mesh that image with the sight of him, slouched and whiskery, downing milky-white raki while he sucked on a pungent-smelling Turkish cigarette.

  The more Nick joked with his friends, the more Nigel tried to single me out. As the meal finished and fruit was served, people stood up, moved around, changed places at the table, and Nigel had moved closer to me. Keeping my eyes down so I didn't have to see the lust blazing in his, I pretended to be awed and tongue-tied so I could duck most of his questions.

  The raki had the most noticeable effect on Sir Avery, who became more talkative. "Did my grandson explain to you about my difficulties with the government of Turkey?" Sir Avery asked me, sounding peevish.

  "No, sir, he didn't."

  "Some years ago they accused me of removing objects from a site near Izmir. It was not true. I had never dreamed of doing such a thing—then." He paused and I noted the ripples of unease that crossed his face. "I didn't need to. I had an adequate income and the means to pursue my research. I also had the use of my legs. But now, as a result of my unfortunate accident, I can no longer be much use at my own excavations." He glared down at the blanket that covered his legs. His wheelchair had been brought to the table, but it didn't look too comfortable. "The good Lord played a rare trick on me when he didn't allow me to die in that cave-in."

  I shuddered. I couldn't think of anything more horrible than dying in a cave-in.

  Except being alive in a cave-in and waiting to die.

  Sir Avery adjusted the hearing aid as he continued, "Despite my misfortunes, my enemies continued to hound me. They threatened my reputation. They told lies about me. Soon the grant money began to dry up." He sounded bitter. "Despite my decades of scholarship, I had no income. I have given much to the science of archaeology over the years, but what have I received in return besides criticism and neglect? Why should the work I have supported all these years not support me in return?"

  This was his just
ification for his current activities. I didn't dare argue. Again, I found it convenient to stare submissively at the floor.

  "It gives me no pleasure that I won't be able to report my find if the treasures of Troy do turn up here on the island. If I were to claim the fame that should be my due, I would be detained for excavating in Turkey without the necessary permits. I'm far too old and unwell to spend my twilight years in a Turkish prison."

  "That would be horrible," I agreed.

  "Be careful what you say," Nigel said to his grandfather in Turkish. "You talk too much."

  "Nonsense," said Sir Avery in the same language. "Have some raki, my dear," he invited. Over my protests, he poured me a glass, adding three ice cubes, which made the clear liquid turn white. "And forgive my lapses into a foreign tongue. I've spent so many years here. My second wife was a Turk—did you know that? Our daughter—Nick's mother, that is—spoke Turkish as her mother tongue and learned no English until she was in school. She taught Turkish to Nick when he was a child."

  With that, he wandered off onto the subject of the family history. I wasn't averse to hearing it. With Nigel riding shotgun on Sir Avery, I didn't dare offer any opinions about the treasures of Troy.

  Sir Avery had been married twice, first to an Englishwoman, who had divorced him after bearing one son, and then to his Turkish wife, who had lived with him until her death a number of years ago. Nigel was the child of Sir Avery's British son, Nick the child of Sir Avery's half-Turkish daughter. Nick and Nigel were only half-cousins, I realized. But they'd been raised as brothers, shuttling back and forth between archaeological digs in the Mediterranean and private schools in England and the States after the deaths of all four of their parents in a plane crash in Brazil.

  "Poor orphan lads, I didn't know what to do with them," said Sir Avery. "Nigel was twelve, Nick only ten. I'm afraid I didn't do a very good job bringing them up."

  I refrained from commenting. Nick had switched seats to chat with Metin and some other guys. Maybe he figured his grandfather would watch over me.