by Colette Gale
“I’ve been gone from the party for long enough, I believe,” he said, his words now calm. He was standing on the threshold of the gazebo steps, outlined from the waist down.
“But . . .” She struggled, caught herself, and allowed the anger to wash away the humiliation that threatened. “My maid. Or no . . . no, perhaps you should send Salieux to me. At least he will finish what he starts.”
Monte Cristo gave a low, hard laugh. “Clever, Comtesse. I’ve already told him what will happen if I find him sniffing around you again. He nearly pissed his pants.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, walking toward him, heedless of her nakedness. Somehow, she couldn’t make herself call him Edmond, though part of her believed it would jar him. No, this was not her Edmond.
Whoever he might have been, he was now the Count of Monte Cristo.
“Nothing,” he said. “I merely find that I have lost what little appetite I had.”
And he disappeared into the darkness.
SEVEN
Haydée Stalks Her Prey
Later that evening
Paris
Mercédès returned to the dinner party with her head held high, her gown in place, and her hair as immaculate as it had been when she walked down the stairs earlier that evening. But there was fire in her eyes, and fury simmering in her veins. One of her gloves was lost in the dark bushes.
She hadn’t been able to leave the gazebo until someone came to assist her to dress again, and thus she’d remained at the mercy of the man who called himself Monte Cristo, waiting to see if he would follow through on his offer to send Charlotte—or Fernand. It was at least fifteen minutes before her maid—thank God, not Fernand—appeared, peeking carefully around the doorway.
During those fifteen minutes, Mercédès traveled through a vortex of emotions. Her hands shook, her breasts ached, and her thighs moved wetly against each other as she stalked around the inside of the gazebo, at that point heedless of her state of undress. She cursed, she wept, and she vowed revenge on Monte Cristo—not only for leaving her here, naked and vulnerable, but also for the trick he’d played, the game, the tease.
The deliberate, ruthless taunting of her body.
That it had been deliberate, and not a sudden case of discretion and prudence, she had no doubt.
She was more certain than ever that Monte Cristo was none other than Edmond Dantès—for she’d kissed him, touched him, smelled him . . . tasted him. There’d been familiarity, and a sort of comfort, buried beneath the passion between them. Despite his harshness, she knew him. She remembered him.
But . . . why?
Why would he do such a thing?
Why would he come to Paris and play about society, and ingratiate himself with Fernand and Albert, and even Danglars and Villefort? And not admit his true identity? What did he have to hide?
As she turned the possibilities over in her mind, there in the dark and silent gazebo, Mercédès had the first niggling of worry in the back of her mind. Monte Cristo had been more than amiable to Albert, and had made himself a quick favorite among the other powerful members of society. He’d even made a friend of Villefort, who rarely deigned to interact with those whom he didn’t know well.
The only person to whom he’d been less than cordial was she, Mercédès. Those dark eyes, that set face, the cool whiplash comments . . . all had been delivered to her with an edge—an underscored edge that had culminated in this moment of frustration and humiliation. She’d bared herself to him both literally and figuratively, and he’d left her vulnerable and aroused.
Perhaps he believed she’d done the same to him when she married Fernand.
Perhaps he was here because he was angry with her for doing so.
It was the only explanation that made sense of the way he’d acted, of the things he’d said—particularly about Salieux. There’d been an underlying jealousy when he spoke of Georges. Yet it was not the obsessive jealousy of a young man, but the disdainful annoyance of a more mature, confident one.
As if he’d allow no one to disrupt his intentions.
Mercédès hovered on the edge of great sadness for a moment. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she thought back to the beauty of their time together: two young, innocent lovers, ignorant of the separate futures that would be forced upon them. She thought she’d wept all she could for the interruption of their love, but the grief rose anew.
And then the sadness eased away to be replaced by anger. For whatever had happened to Edmond Dantès in these twenty-four years, she had been wronged too. Her future, her love, the life she’d desired had been torn away from her as well. In more than two decades, there’d been no news, no communication, no hint that he was still alive.
For the man to be as rich and powerful as he was, he had to have been accumulating the wealth and experience for years. Decades.
And not one word from him over that time.
That he’d been alive—how could she have known differently?
And then for him to come sweeping back into her life, with this cloud of vengeance resting on his shoulders, using her love and her body to humiliate her . . .
Mercédès swallowed another curse. She was damned if she would let him manipulate her like this. She’d not lived with Fernand de Morcerf for twenty-two miserable years—her own penance for making such a foolish choice—to be flummoxed by a plan of vengeance.
If he expected her to cower in the corner or to turn the other cheek, Monte Cristo was bound to be confounded. For Mercédès Herrera de Morcerf was no shy violet, no cowering mouse, no rug to be trod upon.
And so when she returned to the party more than an hour after she’d disappeared to find the Count of Monte Cristo, she held her chin high and walked with an elegant and easy swagger. She smiled, she chatted, she laughed, she flirted.
In other words, she was the gracious and elegant Comtesse de Morcerf.
And when she found Georges, despite the fact that he paled noticeably when she approached him and cast about frantically as if to find escape, she greeted him with a greater enthusiasm than she’d shown in months.
“There you are,” she said, slipping her arm through his and giving him her warmest, most glorious smile. “I must apologize for disappearing for so long. There was a problem in the kitchen, and then in the wine cellar, and then—ah . . .” She laughed up at him and saw, with great satisfaction, that his reluctance was dissolving. “I shan’t bother you with all of the tedious details of my hostess duties. Perhaps, now that I have put things well in hand, we might take a stroll through the gardens. I seem to have lost my glove.”
Georges’ eyes heated and a genuine smile, with the hint of deviltry that had first attracted her, quirked his lips. “Indeed, madam, I would be happy to assist you in your search.” He flexed the arm beneath his coat so that the vee in which her hand rested tightened in a secret embrace.
As they strolled across the ballroom toward the wide-open doors, taking care not to exhibit any signs of hurry, Mercédès paused their progress so that she could speak to several of the guests. She would be discreet, as always, taking care not to make the exit with her companion hurried.
Monte Cristo was nowhere to be seen, and she entertained the thought that he might have been cowardly enough to make his escape before she returned to the party. But when she and Georges stepped out onto the terrace, she saw Monte Cristo’s unmistakable figure, tall and broad-shouldered, and heard the rumble of his voice as he conversed in a small cluster of other guests. Impudently, Mercédès steered Georges toward the group, which included Maximilien Morrel and Franz d’Epinay but, fortunately, not Albert.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said with a pleasant smile.
Monte Cristo’s back had been partly angled toward her, but her voice drew his attention and he turned. As Georges’ arm tensed beneath hers, Mercédès continued toward them, stopping at the edge of the group. “I trust that you have had a pleasant time this evening, and are lacking nothin
g with which to make it more comfortable . . . or satisfying.” Her words were bland, oh so bland, and so was her smile . . . and she kept her eyes resolutely blank as she focused on Monte Cristo.
He was standing with his back to the house, so the light shone behind him and filtered through the wayward tips of the hair that curled around his ears, casting his face mostly into shadow. She couldn’t read his expression, and his stance gave nothing away, but she had the satisfaction of knowing that he could not have expected her to approach him in such a manner, and with Salieux on her arm.
“Everything has been quite perfect, madam,” Maximilien Morrel replied jovially. “Thank you for a delightful evening.”
Mercédès gave a brief nod. “I’m gratified to know that. And so, if you’ll excuse me, I must be off. I seem to have lost one of my gloves.”
The gentlemen bowed, but Monte Cristo was the only one to speak. “In the gardens, madam? I fear you will find them a bit . . . chilly this time of night. Perhaps you might wish to wait until daylight.” The warning in his voice was unmistakable, and she felt Georges hesitate.
Mercédès replied calmly, “In fact, I did find it quite drafty and unpleasant earlier this evening, but I’ve no fear that will happen in this instance. If you will excuse us . . .”
She turned and, with a subtle tug, directed Georges to walk with her, despite the fact that he appeared to be a bit disconcerted. Well, she would soon disabuse him of the notion that the Count of Monte Cristo had any control over her.
Once they were out of earshot of the others, Georges seemed to regain his confidence. In fact, they were close enough that the sounds from the party still filtered through the air so that Mercédès could identify the high-pitched laugh of Madam Villefort, and the answering guffaw of Baron Danglars. The remnants of light from the house reached this far, if only to give a faint illumination to the tops of the hyacinth bushes and boxwood, adding to the glow of the random lanterns hanging at knee height.
Georges led her into a small arbor that was covered by a wickedly thorny rosebush soon to be covered by a profusion of yellow flowers. Mercédès willingly went into his arms, her body already beginning to hum with anticipation and need, her aborted arousal quickly flowing back to life when his lips covered hers.
Arching her hips, skirts and all, into his, she closed her eyes and accepted the deep swipe of his tongue, feeling rather than hearing the soft grunt of his pleasured sigh. His arms tightened firmly around her, crushing her breasts against his solid chest as he delved more deeply, cradling her head with one hand. She matched his mouth with hers, smoothing her palms along the broad width of his shoulders—the other thing that had initially attracted her, those broad, strong shoulders—and closed her mind off to everything but the man holding her.
The gentle spiral began to unwind in her belly, slowly, and she kissed Georges with more passion, desperate for it to grow, so she could let it loose. In response, his hands moved, loosening their embrace and sliding around to find the swell of her breasts between them, cupping them through layers of clothing and boning. She arched toward him, wanting more, wanting the same pounding pleasure she’d had earlier that evening.
But the texture of his mouth, the taste, the way his hands moved over her breasts—too tentative, too worshipful, too slow and delicate—wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t enough.
The little rise of desire that had begun to rekindle in her belly faltered, even as she kissed Georges desperately. Even as his fingers gently moved down beneath her bodice, finding her half-mast nipples and stroking them, but the faint hum of pleasure merely turned into a buzz. Yes, her nipples hardened. Yes, the damp between her legs grew warmer, but it was not the same. Yes, her tongue slipped and slid around Georges’ hot mouth, and she felt the insistent ridge of his cock pressing into the bone above her sex, but it was nothing more than reflex.
No whirlwind, no breathlessness, no spicy spiral that made her knees weak and her head light.
At last, she pulled away, and Georges’ hand slipped out from her bodice. He reached for her again, the desperate avidity on his face evident even in the dim light, but Mercédès demurred, taking a small step backward.
“Mercédès,” he groaned, grasping her hands, and falling onto his knees in front of her. “Please,” he said, “let me taste you.” His hands were moving beneath her skirts; she felt them over her slippers, then up along her stockinged legs.
“Georges,” she said, feeling the welcome prickle of awareness along her thighs as his fingers came closer, “I . . . no, we cannot.” A faint shudder of want tingled between her legs as he continued moving up along them. Her skin trembled beneath his touch, smooth and tantalizing on the sensitive flesh, and her mouth dried as she realized her arousal was growing.
“Please, Mercédès, my love. I want only to pleasure you,” he said earnestly, the weight of her skirt and crinoline billowing up in an awkward pile of fabric over his arms. Only his face showed above the froth of lace and silk, shadowed by a nearby lantern. The sight of his full lips, moist from her kisses, and the pleading in his eyes caused her to waver. One of his fingers moved gently over the front of her sex, teasing the moist hair there, and sending more prickles of need scattering over her skin.
“Georges,” she began, but he’d read the acquiescence in her face, and gave her a little push. She sank onto the bench built into the inside of the arbor, leaning back against the wall. A little prick of thorns teased the back of her head and the tops of her shoulders, but it wasn’t sharp enough to bother her, for they grew on the other side of the trellis, and Mercédès had suddenly become much more invested in what was happening below.
He was between her legs now, his face hidden. A sudden eruption of fabric tossed up and onto her torso left her legs uncovered once again in the pleasant night air, and her view of the top of his head was obstructed.
But . . . her eyes sank closed as she felt the warmth of his fingers, the short, hot puffs of breath there on thighs bare above her stockings. Her pip swelled, suddenly pounding in anticipation, as full as it had been earlier at the hands of the Count of Monte Cristo. And when Georges pulled her thighs wider and put his face to her sex, she nearly came off the bench. She seized up and closed her eyes and thought about the hands and tongue of a tall, dark man . . . not a broad-shouldered, ginger-haired one.
One gentle stroke of a tongue over her engorged and sensitive tickler, and she was shuddering and undulating there, the orgasm short and sharp . . . and empty.
A reflex. A simple release.
And one she already regretted.
In the early hours of the morning, Haydée slipped from her chamber and padded along the carpeted hall.
At last, the household was asleep, and, she hoped, so was her prey. It had been a difficult night after their master returned from his dinner engagement, with Haydée and his manservant, Bertucci, bearing the brunt of it.
Haydée counted three doors from His Excellency’s apartments, and at the fourth one, she paused, took a deep breath, and silently turned the knob.
Inside the small room, there was little but a set of drawers and a narrow bed placed along the darkest wall, far from the two windows. The rug beneath her feet, however, was just as lush as that in her own apartments. As she closed the door behind her, she realized that the bed was flat. Even though there was no light in the chamber, a starry sky that was beginning to pale in the East revealed that there was, indeed, no sign of a slumbering giant.
Confounded, she stopped and was just about to turn back when she saw him.
The pale light streamed through the window, coloring everything near it pale blue-gray, and shone on Ali. He was on the floor, surrounded and supported by numerous pillows and cushions piled in the corner.
She walked toward him, silent as air, and knelt. His breathing was deep and even, and she felt a wave of prickling anticipation sweep over her. A smile curled her lips, and she felt her eyes crinkle at the corners and her mouth go dry.
She had him now.
But first . . . she bent near and inhaled, her hands pressing into the cashmere blanket that draped over him. Her eyes closed and she breathed in his smell: unidentifiable, but strong and bold, spiced liked mint and tinged with the musk of patchouli.
Moving back onto her haunches, she pulled off her silk caftan—the only article of clothing she was wearing—careful not to disturb the air or brush it against his skin. She suspected Ali, trusted servant and bodyguard of His Excellency, slept with one ear and one eye always alert.
She also suspected that he slept in the nude, and it was with delight that she determined this was indeed the case when she carefully lifted the single blanket on the side closest to the window. The cool blue light clearly showed smooth, gleaming ebony skin that made her mouth water and her stomach flip in anticipation.
Haydée expected him to awaken at any time now, but since he was mute, she had no fear he would shout and raise an alarm. Again, she smiled, a devilish curl to her lips as she slid her naked body onto the plump cushion next to him.
He was warm and solid, and she felt the moment he awakened and became aware of her presence. Ali went rigid— everywhere, she noted with satisfaction—and, with a low, guttural grunt, immediately tried to push her away. But by then, she was already sliding her slender body over his, straddling him with wide legs as he rolled from a side position onto his back in an effort to move away.
Slim and delicate she might be, and no match for his incredible strength, but Haydée was determined. She cupped his big shoulders with her hands and sinuously moved her body up and down along the length of his torso as she kissed in the folds of his musky, moist neck. Ali trembled beneath her, his chest rising and falling beneath her breasts, his cock—as gloriously huge as she’d anticipated—prodding in the gap between her thighs.
His hands came down onto her back, gripping her hips as though to remove Haydée from her position . . . but when he tried to lift her away, she clung tighter and rolled her hips. She felt his grip change, then, from pulling her up, to a brief caress, as though he couldn’t stop himself. No sooner did he touch her than his hands jerked away as though burned.