Rough Surrender

by Cari Silverwood

  He chuckled but moved to escort her with hand at her elbow. This evening would be delightful even if the other guests were complete bores.

  At the top, just inside the gilded double doors, a young woman came forward dressed in a strange outfit of blue harem pants and a bejeweled hip-length top.

  “Sir, may I take your hat and coat?”

  “Of course.” He handed them over.

  “The baron has duplicated an event in Paris tonight. The One Thousand and Two Nights celebration of Paul Poiret. Your lady may dress in a Poiret-designed garment similar to mine, if she so wishes.” The girl did a little pirouette, showing off her outfit. The skirt of her gauze-and-silk blue top flared outward.

  “I already have on a Poiret design,” Faith said. “Though it is a dress.”

  She clapped her hands in delight. “Oh. So it is! You may go through then, unless you’d like to try on pants like these?” She giggled. “They’re so light and make me feel like dancing.”

  When Faith shook her head and whispered, no, Leonhardt bowed his head. “Thank you, mademoiselle, but my lady wishes to remain as she is.”

  Farther inside, the ground floor of the small palace opened out. Overhead, the baron’s extraordinary spiral staircase curved its way up to the rooftop. Gold-framed mirrors, gold doorknobs and the rich parquetry floor lent an opulent air to the palace. A steady procession of people–men in staid suits and women in the harem outfits–made their way up the stairs.

  “Looks as though you’ve arrived at the forefront of a fashion revolution, Miss Evard,” Leonhardt said then lowered his voice so only she could hear. “I do like this idea. I cannot imagine any of these women are wearing corsets from the way the clothes hug their figures. You must remember that detail.” He smiled down at her.

  * * * *

  The way Mr. Meisner’s eyes twinkled with glee made Faith want to kick his shins. This endless amusement when she was doing something far more scandalous than going sans corset had become irritating. Standing next to him, while that thing down there nibbled at her, tweaking her clitoris whenever she so much as shuffled her feet, and knowing that he observed the effect on her, it was too much. Kicking him was number one on her list. Number two was begging him to take her into a room somewhere and lick her until she climaxed.

  “Come.” He tugged on her hand. “By the way, ‘come’ is another word for having an orgasm.”

  Her stare would have incinerated another, less formidable, man. Leonhardt just smiled.

  Going up the stairs was an exercise in how to keep an unreadable expression on her face when her body wanted her to touch herself and pant and sigh...and come. They exited the stairs though the steps continued farther upward, and found themselves on a rooftop milling with people drinking champagne from fluted glasses. A small orchestra accompanied a female dancer as she twirled and pranced about on a concrete stage. Like the guests she wore a harem outfit, though hers was a little scantier and she was certainly far younger than most of the women and men watching the performance.

  “Here will do.” Leonhardt halted beside a shaded stone bench at the periphery of the crowd and next to the pierced stone balustrade that marked the edge of the rooftop. Below, a garden of fir, hedge and palm trees spread out and, on numerous plinths, sat stone statues of lions and Shivas and dragons–all brightly lit by electric lights directed down from the roof.

  “This is so exotic!” she said in awe.

  Leonhardt’s large hand engulfed hers then raised it to his lips for a brief kiss. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this. The baron is a true visionary. I’ll go get us both some champagne.”

  A waiter in white bearing a tray of glasses was insinuating himself through the crowd nearby and Leonhard headed for him. The ease with which her man made a path through the mass of people impressed Faith. Her man? Oh dear, that wouldn’t do. This was only for a week or so. Not eternity.

  “Pardon me, we haven’t met.” A middle-aged blond woman in a gold and blue harem outfit with a small matching turban stood beside Faith.

  “Oh, of course. I’m Faith Evard.”

  “Marie Viconnte. You are of French descent yourself?” The woman cocked an eyebrow and waved her wine glass nonchalantly. “Perhaps married to one of these gentlemen? I’ve not seen you about.”

  “My stepfather, Henri, is French. I’m here for the aviation meeting. I have a Bleriot airplane I plan to fly, if only I can find the engine that seems to have been lost somewhere in Cairo.”

  “Or, heaven forbid, lost on the way from Paris to here?” added Leonhardt.

  Faith frowned and swung toward him. That was one scenario she dreaded. If lost on the way, she’d never get it in time. Beneath her dress the clamp tugged, the bell sounded, faint but obvious to her ears. He smoothly handed her a glass brimming with light yellow champagne. She blushed.

  “Leonhardt, dear man.” Marie held up her hand.

  “Enchante, Marie.” He leaned over to kiss her knuckles.

  “Pardon, my dear,” said a man sitting on the bench to Faith’s left. His hair was short, specked gray and black, and sleek. “I do believe I’ve dropped my handkerchief at your feet. Though he spoke delicately, like a gardener discussing the pruning of the tiniest flower bud, something about the man’s voice made her skin crawl.

  A second later, she glimpsed him reach for something from the tiled floor a few inches from her ankle. She spun and stepped back into Leonhardt’s arms. He steadied her with a hand at her waist. The bell rang sharply.

  The man smiled up at her while he retrieved a yellow silk handkerchief. His voice was warm. “Again, my pardon.”

  “Sydney!” squealed Marie. “I didn’t see you there. Are you coming to the horse races tomorrow at the hippodrome? Or is the air show more to your taste?”

  “Why, Marie.” He rose from the seat, his lanky frame several inches short of Leonhardt’s height. “I do believe I’ll be at the aerodrome for the start of the air meet, especially if this lovely young woman is there also.”

  “Sir.” Faith frowned at him, somehow sure she should take care to remember his lean, well-chiseled face. Every feature seemed perfect, too perfect–eyebrows, ruler-straight mouth, even the bones of his cheeks were perfect... Given a choice, she’d rather kiss a snake.

  “Sydney Smythe.” Leonhardt stepped up beside Faith and grasped her hand in his...warm and comforting, with the fingers interlaced, as if afraid he would lose her. “I was certain this would be one place we would never meet.”

  “Ah.” A grimace crossed Sydney’s features. “Alas, I have many friends who delight in inviting me to wonderful recitals such as this. I should say, your...lady companion has exquisite taste in jewelry. The way everything jangles together is a delight to the ears of a connoisseur of music such as myself.”

  “Really, Sydney.” Marie laughed. “You say some odd things at times. Do come with me to meet the Rigbys. Pardon us, Miss Evard. Mr. Meisner.”

  Though Sydney nodded, then turned away promptly, Faith understood what he’d insinuated. The bell, he’d heard it, and was telling them he knew. “How did he–”

  “We are leaving.” Leonhardt put down his glass and hers, pulled on her hand then strode back toward the stairs.

  “What? Why?” To protest too much would be rude and draw attention. To stop his implacable progress was impossible. Leonhardt had sounded as if he’d pick her up and carry her or drag her along the floor if he must. She gave in.

  When they’d gone all the way down the stairs, out to the entrance, retrieved coat and hat, and descended the first flight of stone steps, she set her heels and managed to get him to stop. “Leonhardt. Please. I can see the man somehow figured out you had this thing on me, but did we have to leave? I could have removed–”

  He spun, pushed her against the pedestal of a stone elephant and kissed her hard and brutally until she sagged back onto the statue. His groin pressed on her corset, which squashed the clamp chain and tugged gently at the bell. All of her fell under his
spell. For all she knew the world had plunged underwater. Her ears stopped up and she heard only the wash of blood and the hum of arousal. Her mouth tasted nothing but him, her vision darkened. When he raised his head, his eyes burned into hers.

  Gasping, she stared back and registered that her arms were clasped around his chest, warm and snug under his coat. Another kiss as hot as that and her flesh would merge with the stone at her back. Leonhardt stroked her forehead.

  Slowly, she dragged her mind up from wherever it had been swimming and calmed her pulse from a mad foxtrot pace to a waltz rhythm. “That helped, somewhat.”

  “Good.” The hard set to his mouth dissolved to a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, Faith.”

  What was this? Mr. Meisner apologizing?

  “The baron is my employer but having appeared and been seen, I have done my duty. Sydney is a man I’d rather you not have to suffer. Despite his friends in the elite echelon of society he has business interests at the nether end. He runs brothels. I last saw him in London. We are going to my house, where I will find far more enjoyable pursuits than this recital.”

  “Oh?” Dash it, the squeak was back in her voice.

  “Yes, my dear, I do mean you. It’s time we took your education further.”

  Well. Arrogant man...of course. What else would he be? Anxiety and lust caught at her throat and sent her thoughts tumbling. She blinked at him. Perhaps it would be a worthwhile evening after all.

  Chapter 16

  Of all the stupid things to do. She trusts me. Lars chuckled. “In, lady. Of course I can drive you!” He grinned as the little redhead smiled back and headed for the rear of the Packard. Pretty woman. All done up in a pretty black dress.

  So much easier when the boss handed them to him. This one would never be missed.

  “Please.” He watched her settle herself into the back passenger seat and turned in the seat to speak, disguising the slip of his hand under his coat. “Where is it you wish me to drive you? I have been here for two months. I know Cairo well.”

  She giggled, leaned toward him and delicately rested her little fingers on his shoulder. “Well. Seein’ how your boss doesn’t want me to work for him, I’m kind of at a loose end. Perhaps I can set up my own business? For men like you?” She breathed the last word from mere inches away then pouted.

  “For me? For Lars.” He reached one hand around the seat and took a tight hold of her bun of hair while shuffling the cudgel’s grip into a comfortable spot in his other hand.

  “Oooh. Like it rough do we?” She pretended to try to escape but giggled again. “Yes, for you. Lars.”

  He forced her to look downward then thumped her one. Unconscious in seconds, bundled onto the floor, and...they were off. He accelerated away. That was as smooth as taking candy from a baby.

  * * * *

  Mr. Meisner’s house was built of the pale local stone with alternate striping above the external arches as seemed the popular style–three stories of magnificence on the outside and splendor on the inside. Mawson had answered the front door then promptly disappeared down the hallway into the left wing of the house.

  “Are there no other servants?” Faith asked, nervous at the seeming emptiness of the dwelling.

  “None at the moment. The cook goes home at night, and Helen is currently staying at the hotel in the domestic quarters. Please,” he said warmly, gesturing toward the staircase leading upward. Twin man-high bronze ibises flanked the first step. An electric chandelier hung above. The balustrade was a carved version of an aquarium with lilies and weed, and small fish swimming up in metal and timber.

  With the three days between the affair at the hotel and now, the idea of being alone in his house struck Faith as...dangerous somehow. Yet she was here. She hesitated, chewing a little of the inside of her cheek, fiddling with her silver clutch purse.

  He came to her side and held out his hand. “Come, Faith. We’ll just talk, if you like. There’s a sitting room upstairs.”

  “Just talk?” She screwed up her mouth a little in disbelief.

  He searched her face. “If that is all you wish. There is no rush. I may be a man, but I have restraint. Your gift of command can be set aside for another day, if need be.”

  As if this were a game he played? Yet if she set foot on those stairs and went upstairs, how likely that she’d give in if he asked her to go further? The more she thought on this the colder her feet seemed to grow. She’d let him do as he wished at the hotel and in the car. Why not now?

  Apart from a liking for writing on her bottom, there was nothing he’d done that hadn’t been in some strange way, right.

  She put her hand in his. Without force, without saying another word, he drew her up the stairs. Her dress whispered against his great coat when she ventured too near. The timber echoed under their shoes and somewhere a clock ticked off the hours. She smelled fresh flowers and wondered who had picked them.

  At the top, the first room was indeed a sitting room where a small balcony looked out over the night sky through fretwork timber shutters. Mr. Meisner turned on an electric light that hung above in a filigree silver cradle. Sandalwood oil mingled with the scent of a tub of roses on the balcony.

  From a decanter on a side table, Mr. Meisner poured cognac into two brandy glasses. “Be comfortable, please, Faith.” He indicated a cushion-strewn damask divan with curled ends that fairly invited one to sprawl upon it like some decadent princess.

  Hmm. Faith pursed her lips. There was a low table before it and nowhere else to sit. If she were genuine in talking and only talking, she’d not sit on the same piece of furniture as him. He’d only pull her in close anyway. She just knew it. Darn it.

  After heaving out a breath in defeat, she went to it and sat at one end.

  After only a few seconds of contemplation, Mr. Meisner gave her one glass then sat at the other end of the divan. Amazed, she stared at him.

  “If you want me to stay here, at this end, Faith. Put your feet up. On my lap.”

  “Ugh. You’re starting already.”

  “Please. It will help you to relax.”

  And...and a, please? Whatever was the man up to? Begrudgingly, she lifted her feet and slid along enough that they reached his lap. Her dress gathered under her hip. “I’m sure they’re quite smelly, after walking about.”

  “That’s what I like about you.” He smiled in a deadly way. “Your honesty. I happen to like feet, and I’m very good at massaging them.”

  She rolled her eyes. What was this man not good at? Apart from finding airplane engines.

  With his glass in one hand, he used the other hand to slide off her black shoes and drop them to the floor. “Are you finding Cairo to your liking, Miss Evard?” Without warning, he started to rub her foot, rolling each toe gently through her stockings, massaging the base and a little up the foot, then going deeper into muscles underneath.

  It was good. Every sinew and muscle slowly dissolved into jelly. She snuggled her back into the cushions. “Oh, you were right. That is lovely, sir.” She let her eyelids droop. “Cairo?”

  He met her gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes, Cairo. Miss.”

  “I didn’t say, sir, because– Oh, never mind. I have enjoyed what I’ve seen, but I still have no engine, and I’ve not seen the pyramids. You did promise to show me them, so I waited.” She squirmed as he slipped his thumb between two little toes.

  “I want your stockings off so I can massage these properly.”

  Though her inner voice was screaming, nooo, she paused only a moment or two before reaching down and unclipping the top of her stockings through the dress material. Between her hands and Mr. Meisner’s, her legs were soon bare. He’d been true to his word and hadn’t otherwise moved.

  “Thank you.” Mr. Meisner took a swig of cognac, dipped his fingers in the glass then put those wet fingers on her toes and rubbed. The alcohol cooled her skin.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You said your feet were dirty. I�
�m cleaning them.”

  “Uh-huh.” The slip of his fingers was having strange effects on her. Relaxing...but also erotic. The clamp on her clitoris abruptly sang back to life. She’d forgotten. Somehow, in all the tension, she’d just forgotten. And toes were just toes, except... She wet her lips...when they connected in a bewitching line to her female bits. Things were swelling, getting moist, her nipples peaked, and the effort needed to resist clenching her thighs together was growing rapidly.

  Desperate for distraction, she noticed a painting on the wall of a cavalry officer who’d reined in before the monstrous presence of the sphinx. Beyond, stretched the desert.

  “That, uh, painting is very well done.”

  “Yes. A copy of a great painting.” He lifted his head to look but those fingers of his kept circling and massaging and now, every so often, his hand drifted higher to her ankle. “That’s Napoleon. His army came here. There’s a rumor that they shot off the sphinx’s nose, though some say it’s a myth.”

  “Mmm. I’d heard that.” Her whole lower body had warmed, and all from her foot and toes being rubbed. My goodness. She wriggled her bottom slightly on the divan. Mr. Meisner’s eyes locked on hers–intense, calculating, hot. Still watching, he lowered his mouth and raised her foot until the two met then closed his mouth over three of her little toes and suckled. Warm tongue. Cold alcohol. A shockwave rippled upward.

  “I thought we were talking,” she said breathlessly. Mr. Meisner lifted his mouth from her and she had the distinct notion she’d just awakened some dreaded creature like a dragon from mythology–something that ate women for dinner and afterward devoured their bones.

  “We were.” His voice, she thought, was distinctly lower. If the drop into baritone depths was on purpose, it worked.

  She shivered and didn’t dare move. But– “I said no sex.”

  “I never agreed to that.”

  Hadn’t he? She couldn’t remember and truthfully, didn’t want to.

  “If you have anything to say before I undress you, now is your last chance.”