If I Had You

by Heather Hiestand

  “Mother was a beauty. Vera has aged faster. A different sort of life.”

  “I hope you don’t tell her that.”

  Ivan shrugged. “As long as Sergei admires her, that’s all that matters.”

  “Will they marry soon?”

  Ivan gestured to the door, and Alecia followed him out. He went the opposite direction from before, heading for the service lift. This one wasn’t manned, and had blankets covering the walls.

  “To the seventh we go,” Ivan said, operating the controls.

  Alecia leaned against the wall as they rose, feeling the tug of gravity. She stared at her shoes, glad to see they hadn’t picked up any East End detritus and still looked brand-new.

  “Every time I’ve looked at you all night, you’ve been staring at your shoes.”

  She put her hand over her mouth, trying to hide her giggle. “I know, so silly of me, but I can’t believe they are really mine.”

  “London shoes.”

  “Yes, exactly! Can you imagine wearing shoes like this in a muddy rural field? What the church ladies would say if they saw me wearing them at my grandfather’s services?”

  The lift stopped with a shudder. “They’d say you’d been sinning,” Ivan said.

  He opened the door and the gate and stepped out, then held his hand out to her. She took it and stepped off.

  “Am I going to sin in these shoes?” she whispered.

  “I thought I’d take them off you first.”

  He was so beautiful, even in the faint light of the corridor, that she had to stand on her tiptoes and lean into him. Her mouth only came up to his chin, but she kissed it, that cleft there, then trailed her lips down his neck.

  His breath expelled harshly, and he shifted his stance, supporting more of her weight. She slid her hands down the buttons of his winter coat, then up again, unbuttoning them as she went. Leaning in again, she felt the hot, hard length of his manhood against her belly.

  He wrapped his arm around her and she could feel the key in his hand, the heavy brass fingerplate, the long, old-fashioned key. She couldn’t pull herself away as he plundered her mouth, and met him in intensity, curling her fingers around his belt, rubbing against him like a cat. Every time she moved her torso, her engorged nipples sent fireworks of liquid heat through her entire body. She had desires she’d never known before. She wanted to claw and bite his clothing off.

  He lifted the key to eye level between them, and broke the kiss. “I have to—” He panted between each word.

  “Open the door?” she asked, equally breathless.

  He nodded. His pupils looked huge in the dimness, his lips swollen. She wanted to go down on her knees and worship. Once, her sister had made a comment about what flappers did on their knees. She had no idea what Sadie had meant, but she wanted to find out.

  Ivan opened the double doors of the suite and stepped in, turning on the light. She had thought she wouldn’t be able to tear her eyes off of him, but the sight of the room had her dumbstruck with wonder. She hadn’t realized this floor of the hotel had vaulted ceilings with stained glass upper windows. The entire space was pure white. Carpets, sofas, the piano. Even the tables were some kind of white lacquer with oriental detailing cut into the wood. The touches of gold seemed inspired. Pillows. Ornate fans in frames. Then there were the white- and gold-framed photographs of musicians dotting the walls, a mixture of dark and light faces, all in suits, often with their instruments at the ready. She wanted to go to them and read all the group names, but then Ivan stepped back into view and she was lost in him again.

  “Can I take your coat?”

  She let it slide off her arms, and he gathered her coat before it hit the ground, placing it neatly on a coatrack. Next came her muffler, her hat, her gloves. They both glanced at her shoes, but she’d unbuckled them before she even left the front hallway, not wanting to leave shoe marks on the immaculate carpet. He began to disrobe too, until he was in shirtsleeves and trousers.

  “I’ve always wanted to feel this carpet on my toes,” he said.

  “Then you should,” she said.

  “There’s a bearskin in front of the fireplace.”

  “What part of your body did you want to feel on that?” she teased.

  “Why, Miss Loudon,” he said. “Not such a myshka now.”

  “All those kisses took my fear away,” she murmured. “Isn’t it lucky that I know how to undo your tie?” She put her hands to work.

  He swallowed hard. She could feel his Adam’s apple bobbing as she unknotted. Then she slid the fabric away from his shirt and tossed it on the hook with his coat.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I brought a sheath,” he said in a gravelly voice that made him sound even more Russian.

  She felt her face go hot. Yes, she wanted it, but his words made it all so real. But she’d made her decision.

  “Do you want to go into the bedroom?” he asked.

  “What about that bearskin rug?”

  His mouth worked. He spoke slowly. “That’s a Russian dream. I’ve spoken English since I was a child, but I’m finding the words hard.”

  “Is your brain addled, Mr. Salter?” She wondered if he could see her nipples peaking under Sybil’s dress.

  He nodded.

  “Mine too.”

  “We should have champagne.”

  She shook her head. “I have bubbles in my blood when I look at you. I don’t need anything else.”

  His teeth showed when he smiled. “I’ll take my socks off,” he said. “Take your stockings off too.”

  She complied. “But you have to remove your shirt.”

  He did, staring at her. As each inch of golden sand-colored skin revealed itself, she felt like she should ooh in admiration. He had the lines of a Michelangelo sculpture.

  “Now you,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your dress.”

  She didn’t hesitate, merely reached behind herself so she could undo the back of her dress. It fit quite tightly compared to many modern fashions. When it fell open in the back she let it slide off her shoulders and down her arms, exposing her bralette. His stare held only admiration. When the dress pooled around her thighs, her tap pants were exposed. She had bought these today too, sateen instead of silk, but pretty for the price.

  Ivan muttered something in Russian, his gaze full of partiality. Then in English, he said, “I have never seen a lovelier girl.”

  Alecia was grateful for her grandfather’s abstemious dinner table, followed by the Marvins’ even more dramatic diet, which had kept her figure so streamlined. Her sister was inclined to a certain amount of chubbiness that seemed adorable now, but her own face had never looked well when it rounded. “I have never seen a more handsome man,” she admitted.

  “I want to make love to you on the bearskin rug,” he said. “I’ll light the fire. You won’t be cold.”

  She nodded and took his hand. When they reached the soft pelt in front of the beautiful white marble fireplace, they sank to their knees together, hands clasped. His lips met hers. She could taste a faint saltiness that indicated he’d dipped into the caviar before they left the party. How fitting that they’d had a lovely feast before coming here.

  “I meant to show you the piano and listen to you play,” he said, smoothing a hand along her hair.

  “No, you didn’t. You meant this to happen.” She smiled to show him her enthusiasm with the idea.

  “We still have clothes on.”

  “We should remedy that.”

  “Do you want to discuss the future?” he asked.

  “There is no future. It’s 1925 and all I need is now.”

  “That is how we think these days,” he agreed.

  She put her hands to his lips. “No more talking. I don’t want to be afraid. I just want you to touch me, make me feel the things that I know you can. Love me, Ivan, before I think too hard about it.”

  He let go of one of her hands, reached to the sofa an
d grabbed one of the gold pillows. Placing it behind her, he maneuvered her back until she lay with her head against the pillow. He stayed on his elbows to keep his weight off her.

  “Is it going to hurt?” she whispered, caressing his shoulder.

  “Not if I can help it.” He kissed her tenderly as he removed her bralette.

  She felt his gentleness in the way he contained his strength. When his mouth moved to her neck, she shuddered a little. He roved toward her clavicle, then for the first time, a man’s mouth touched her breasts. She arched into him as his tongue found her nipple, not afraid in the least. All she wanted was more, more, more.

  It couldn’t possibly be any better than this, the gentle suction of his mouth on her breast, the way his strong arm wrapped around her hips. Fingers rolled down the top of her tap pants, her only remaining clothing. He kissed the indentation of her belly button, then ran his tongue along the curve of her hip bone. When he lifted her infinitesimally and pulled her pants completely off, she writhed, her legs falling apart. How gentle his fingers were as they drew patterns through her curls, then slid into the moist heat he’d created between her thighs.

  She didn’t expect his mouth to go there too, but his entire body moved lower, and he devoured her. Or at least, that was how it felt. His fingers slowly moved into her most private place while his tongue tortured some spot that made her lose her mind. She knew she was speaking, begging even, but had no idea what words came out of her mouth. The pleasure coiled and spiraled then broke free. As the tension in her body fled, she found his dear face above her again.

  He kissed her forehead. “We’re joined, you and I. Isn’t it marvelous?”

  She turned her head one way and the other, realizing it wasn’t his fingers inside her, but something else, that long, hard, masculine part of him. She hadn’t even been aware. “I’m not a virgin anymore?”

  “No, my pretty darling. You’re mine.” He rocked his hips against her, making her gasp. Little black dots danced behind eyelids she hadn’t realized she’d just closed.

  She smiled and feathered her fingers into his thick black hair, then pulled his mouth to hers. He tasted of dark things, the recesses of her own body, her passion. He tasted like heaven and felt even better.

  * * *

  Seated behind his desk, Peter Eyre lifted his teacup to his lips and enjoyed his first sip of smoky tea made in a traditional samovar. He’d ordered it for the Ovolensky visit, only four days away now, and had it set up in the Coffee Room. The hall porter had just brought him the first official cup. He could see it would take some getting used to, but he liked it nonetheless, and the samovar was a beautiful one. He’d found the silver and blue enamel piece at an auction house. The matching cups had been missing, but they’d have been stolen soon enough anyway.

  His door burst open without even so much as a warning knock. Emmeline. No one else dared be so informal with him.

  “She’s missing again, the old cow.”

  His lover’s face had aged a decade since he’d seen her the night before. She had bags under her eyes, and without her expert application of lipstick he could see how thin and colorless her lips really were. She was much more beautiful with makeup, sad to say. And her dark roots were showing. It wasn’t like her not to find time to go to the salon. She must be running low on funds again, despite his covering her hotel bill.

  “Mrs. Plash?” he said mildly, setting down his serviceable white tea mug.

  “Obviously. Her behavior is going to send me to the lunatic asylum one of these days. Just you wait and see, Peter.”

  I’m not planning to wait long enough to see. “Mr. Russell should have just come on duty. He’ll alert staff.” He stood and walked around his desk. As he passed by her, he noticed the cigarette ash ground into her glove.

  He snapped his fingers at Mr. Moth. “Call Mr. Russell and the hall porter in here.”

  Within two minutes, both men were in his office, listening to Emmeline’s description of what her mother had been wearing to bed. She thought her mother was still in night dress.

  “We’ll find her,” Mr. Russell assured her. “We always do.”

  Peter shut the door behind them. “Look Emmeline, this isn’t working. Your mother needs to be somewhere more manageable. Larger than a hotel suite but smaller than a grand hotel.”

  Emmeline forced a sugary smile. It looked obscene on her unpainted face. She danced her fingers up one of his immaculate sleeves. “Look, darling, I know she’s a challenge, but I’m worth it, right?”

  “When I said you could move in here, I wasn’t aware you had an ill mother in tow. It had been years since I’d seen her. I’ve been patient for a month now, but it isn’t getting any better. This is the wrong sort of establishment for Mrs. Plash.”

  “What about me?” She squared herself off with his body, then pressed her chest against him.

  He had the feeling she hadn’t bothered to put on underclothes beneath her loose red sweater and skirt. She smelled like last night’s sex, old perfume, and even older cigarettes. “Your mother has money and so do you. Not grand hotel money, but something. I’ll have your things taken over to the boardinghouse where Olga Novikova lives.”

  She gasped. “You must be joking. She’s a chambermaid.”

  “She was a princess, in the old days, before the imperial government fell. Still has some lovely things. Authenticated my new samovar for me.”

  Her lips pressed together, wobbling dangerously. “How dare you!” She made fists and pounded them against his chest. “A boardinghouse fit for a chambermaid?”

  He grabbed her wrists and held them away from his body. “It isn’t going to work here. You’re disturbing my concentration. I need to focus on the hotel, not your mother.”

  “Peter!”

  “And not your drama. I’ve had enough of it.”

  He pushed her wrists toward her and dropped them. She rocked back as if he’d put real force behind the gesture. Tears began to spill from her eyes, drawing the remnants of last night’s mascara down her cheeks in black trails.

  “Go pack, or I’ll have Olga do it for you.” He turned toward his desk. “Focus on your mother instead of men, for once. She deserves that much.”

  She hit him with enough force to bend his body at the waist, then locked her arms around his neck as if to strangle him. He called out sharply, then attempted to save his breath as he fought to pull her arms apart without bruising her. He bent forward, trying to breathe, but only managed to lift her entire body off the floor. He kicked back with one leg but made contact with nothing. Time to stop working so hard and take some exercise beyond lifting a cigarette or a glass of champagne to his mouth.

  Just as he thought he had no air left, he heard men coming into the room. Emmeline screamed as her arms were wrenched off his neck. Hugh Moth and the newest night watchman, Swankle, held her by the arms as she shrieked, spewing spittle.

  Peter coughed and pushed the wings of his hair back into order before turning around. “Lock her into her suite. No, wait, better not do that, in case her mother returns. Do we have any rooms open?”

  “Just the Piano Suite.”

  He nodded and wheezed. “Lock her into the bedroom. Just the bedroom, mind. I don’t want her damaging anything. And take her shoes so she doesn’t mark the carpet.”

  “I’ll piss on it!” she screamed. “I’ll destroy it.”

  “Then we’ll call the police and you’ll go to Holloway. Your mother will be alone then. Is that what you want?”

  Her eyes were wild, but she didn’t respond. She wasn’t as far gone as she pretended. No, Emmeline Plash was a calculating bitch.

  “I’ll go quietly for five thousand pounds,” she said.

  “Oh, please,” he said, reaching for his cigarette case, pleased to see his hands weren’t shaking despite nearly being suffocated.

  “You owe me.”

  “Not even if you were a full-blown whore, would you be worth that much after a month.”
/>   Swankle’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

  “Take her upstairs. Use the service lift. Don’t say anything to anyone, then go back to searching for her mother.”

  “I have to be at the desk,” Mr. Moth said, as Mr. Swankle said, “My shift ended, sir. Do you want me to stay over?”

  “Right, then.” He lit his cigarette. “Of course you must return to the desk, Mr. Moth. I will wait on our guests myself until you return. As for you, Mr. Swankle, if you’d like to pick up extra pay, I would appreciate the help until Mrs. Plash is found.”

  “Yes, sir,” Swankle said with a happy smile.

  “Very good. Off you go.” Peter blew out a long stream of smoke as the men dragged his mistress out of the door between them.

  * * *

  Alecia heard a disturbance outside her room. Was Richard throwing a fit about something? She sat up in bed, and discovered she was naked. Naked was not her bedtime routine. Then she realized Ivan was next to her on his stomach, his hands tucked under the pillow. Simultaneously, she felt a soreness between her legs that reminded her what she’d done three times over the course of the night. She touched his smooth back and reminisced sleepily.

  They hadn’t closed the curtains. Winter’s faint early light hadn’t awakened them, though whatever time it was now offered enough light to see clearly. In fact, there was enough light for her to see the doorknob turning.

  “Ivan!” she cried, instantly wide awake, pulling the covers over her head and ducking down.

  She heard a rustling as he sat up.

  “Swankle,” Ivan exclaimed.

  “Uh, hello, Salter,” came the voice of another man. “Mr. Eyre gave orders to have Miss Plash locked up in here.”

  “I see,” he said. “Could you wait in the hall for a moment?”

  Alecia lay still, petrified, as another woman screamed invectives.

  “I really don’t think so,” said a voice she recognized as belonging to the front desk clerk. “A bit out of control, this one.”

  “Right, well, we’ll take the blankets with us.” He put his head under the blanket and, all business, helped Alecia pull the sheet from the bed and wrap it around her body. Then he pulled the blanket over them both and helped her to stand. They shuffled out of the open door into the parlor and shut it. The sound of Miss Plash’s venom disappeared.