The man seemed interested, so removing the walnut from the nutcracker, Maria peeled away the rest of the shell and shiny brown skin, and handed the nutmeat to him.
Curiously, Karim took it, and placed it in his mouth, slowly chewing, and finally swallowing the tidbit. Then, for the first time, he smiled, and a magnetic warmth entered his eyes that touched Maria so that she knew at once she would do anything short of murder to make him look at her that way again.
"I have a lot to learn," he commented more to himself than to her as he moved about her apartment.
He seemed, thoughtful for a moment while examining everything with his eyes. Then casually he drew her to him and kissed her. Without saying another word, Maria took his hand and led him to her bed.
It was getting dark, and his chest seemed only a dark outline against the sheets. Her fingers caressed his chest hair, letting the fine, though abundant, mass trail between her fingers. She was aware of his sweaty smell that was not pungent, nor sour, but a fresh musk. There were ridges beneath her hands, and she wondered if they could be scars.
Once, two years before, she had bedded a criminal (though she hadn't known he was one at the time). And another time she had sold herself to a Spanish Gypsy (on a dare). Both of those men had scars, and bringing the single candle closer and setting it on the round bedside table, Maria was surprised to find one so young with so many similar marks.
Pulling his robe off his shoulders, she touched each one of them, first with her fingertips, and then, bending close, with her tongue, working from his neck downward over the hard swell of his pectorals and onto his belly, feeling the thicker hair and the skin that had not reached the sun, which seemed nearly as light as her own.
She was reaching for the hard head of his penis, already stabbing high against his robes, when she paused, thinking suddenly that some men didn't want a woman to take the lead, and concerned about making any faux pas, she sat back on her haunches beside him and whispered huskily, "Is there something particular you would like? I'd love to do anything you wanted me to."
He smiled with that same touch of magnetic warmth that enchanted her. "Do as you usually do," he said. "What do men of your country prefer? I want to learn everything about Europeans."
He was completely at his ease, so unlike many men, and particularly young ones. He seemed as if women made love to him often, and it was something he accepted, as the master accepts the adulation of a slave.
Maria smiled her most seductive smile. She knew how to drive a man wild, how to do all the things "good" wives would never dream of doing. And this man she wanted to please more than any she had encountered.
And so she began, gently, taking everything slowly, kissing his body with lips and a flickering tongue and running her fingers gently along his inner thighs, and then higher, to brush the curling hair at his most sensitive of parts, and knowing as she did that he was hard and ready, even before she took him in her mouth with practiced skill, slowly, moving over every bit of that engorged member to the very top where her tongue made swift circular motions before returning down the shaft and then repeating.
She knew what extreme pleasure this gave a man, that soon, when she came to the top he would strain against her mouth. She had even had them beg her for-more when, sometimes, at that pinnacle of intense desire, she would pause to feel her full power. But when she did this now, eager most of all to have this man beg for what she gave, he neither begged nor even spoke. Instead, as if he already knew this game, she found herself quickly on her back and entered with firm, if not brutal force.
So! He could be impatient after all, she thought as swiftly he spent himself deep and grew hard a second time. And now he did the work, in long sure strokes, seeming to know already how to bring her to stunning satisfaction such as she had never known.
And afterward, as they reclined together among the sheets and pillows that Maria, had herself embroidered with pink poppies, he surprised her by saying, "You have a very clever and pretty little body, Maria," as idly he touched her thigh with a long finger. "But I am interested in more from you."
"More?" Maria asked, her imagination somersaulting. What could he mean? "Of course I'll do anything. But what is it you want me to do?"
"It is my wish that you teach me the customs of your people so well I can be mistaken for one of them. Then when you have taught me all you can, you will forget the Arab I am now. And in return, I will start you in any business you choose."
Maria's head spun, remembering the gold coin he'd handled so casually. The proposition was like something out of a dream. He wanted to stay, not just tonight, but for many more. And later . . . well, later she would see.
He had spoken as if her refusal was out of the question, and she affirmed his attitude with an eager nod.
"Yes, of course, you already speak French well." Maria's eyes perused him appraisingly, cocking her head before she continued. "Yes in European clothes you could easily pass for a Frenchman or even a Spaniard, couldn't you?"
"It is agreed, then," he stated. "Tomorrow we begin."
Again Maria nodded, a new excitement brightening her features. "But what shall I call you?" she asked as an afterthought. "You will need a European name."
The man smiled then, a slow inward smile. "Call me Brandon Phillips," he said. "Monsieur Brandon Phillips."
Six months later only a trace of Brandon's former wildness was left, just enough to give him a certain air of excitement which caused women's heads to turn whenever he walked down the street. And now it was no longer an uncivilized Arab who sat across the table from Maria in their new stylish apartment but a suave, polished European dressed as a man of the world. But, staring into her salad bowl one night, and picking at its contents without appetite, Maria had to admit to herself that, just as his progress had been marvelous, her usefulness to him was quickly diminishing. She had exhausted her repertory of information and now the silent meals they passed together gave her little cause for hope.
You are a fool, Maria, she told herself. He will leave you and you have always known it but still you have let yourself fall in love with him.
She sighed heavily, remembering her aunt, who had always said her luck would never be good, and glancing up at Brandon, she told herself that he had never pretended to love her, although he had provided exactly what he had promised. In the bank in her name was a generous sum with which to open a business of her own once they parted ways. A group of girls would be profitable, she thought. Or she had always dreamed of owning a florist shop. She sighed then, leaning forward and ringing a small bell to signal-for the next course to be served.
The young maid appeared, hired by Brandon when they had first moved to the larger house. And now Maria realized that once he left, the maid would be a luxury she couldn't afford, at least until her business became profitable, and this pained her. The girl's presence had made Maria feel more like a lady than any of the other things her patron had provided. Now the realization of soon losing the girl increased Maria's sense of melancholy.
Another half hour ticked by on the large wall clock behind him. Still he didn't speak. Maria added more coffee to her cup and sipped it before pushing it away, her hand enclosing again the half-full glass of white wine that remained. Suddenly then she found herself unable to postpone the inevitable for even one more agonizing minute.
"I will miss you, monsieur," she said sadly. "But perhaps you will think of me, sometimes, and remember little Maria who turned you into a Frenchman?"
M. Phillips looked up from his coffee and studied her a moment with a certain friendly warmth. "I'm grateful for all your help, Maria."
His tone was polite but the distance in it cut her more than hostility would have. Tears gathered in her eyes, and she pulled herself up sharply. He is only being honest, she told herself. He had never made love to her as men had sometimes done, making reckless promises, and complimenting her beauty. He had always been distant and businesslike, although kind, and after the months th
ey had spent together, she knew little more about him than on the day he had first come to her little flat on the other side of Paris.
Her lips quivered. The sense of finality in his posture brought a pain stabbing her heart. She pictured the apartment bare of him, his cravat no longer tossed carelessly across the bed; his elegant ivory toilet appointments gone; the masculine smells of leather and shaving soap disappeared.
Suddenly Maria felt desperate-reckless, and burst into tears. "Monsieur Phillips . . . Brandon!" she wailed, her arms parting in entreaty. "Please don't leave. I will do anything if you stay. I love you---only you-I didn't know how much! You have become my life!"
Gaining control of herself, she paused, already regretting her undignified and useless outburst. She bit her lip tentatively and glanced at him, wiping her eyes with a napkin.
He was looking at her kindly, but made no move to take her in his arms or to silence her tears with gentle kisses of reassurance as she prayed he would. There was only a long silence which stretched out between them.
At last he spoke, calmly, as if trying to quiet a child. "You have done a great service for me, Maria, and for this you have been paid as we agreed." When she didn't look up his big hand came to cover hers. "Love doesn't come to a man as easily as it does to a woman," he finished.
Maria dabbed at her tears. There was no point in debasing herself further, she told herself firmly, although she had little dignity left to preserve. You have always known this day would come. And trying to square her sagging shoulders, she comforted herself with the thought that at least she would never have to sell herself again.
At ten o'clock the following morning, a group of men arrived who silently carried Phillips's personal belongings out to the waiting phaeton while Maria, standing on the steps outside, pressed her mother's handkerchief to her lips, trying to contain her sobs.
A half hour later, with silk hat in hand and dressed elegantly, Brandon came down the steps. Lightly he kissed both Maria's tear-streaked cheeks in the French manner before stepping into the rear seat of the carriage. With a crack of a whip, it lurched away, clattering down the cobblestone street.
Maria pressed the handkerchief tighter to her mouth, watching it turn the corner. Then as abruptly as he had appeared that first day on rue des Abbesses, he was gone, as surely and finally as if he had never been.
PART III
JULIETTE CLAYTON
LONDON-1891
Chapter 15
"Blood!"
"Yes, of course blood, Lady Pottersbee! It does make a difference. And Juliette Clayton has some of the best. It would be a disgrace to the school, and to all of us, if she were expelled for lack of funds."
Mrs. Welwright confronted the director of Miss Fayton's Girls School, Lady Pottersbee, who, at the moment, was seated at her impressive desk, haloed by a portrait of her late husband on the paneled wall behind her.
"At eighteen, Juliette Clayton is one of the most promising of all the girls," Mrs. Welwright continued, curly head held high as befitted her own aristocratic bloodlines, impoverished as they were. "Juliette Clayton is not only intelligent; she is a beautiful child as well. She could benefit greatly from the help this school can give her in gaining a place in society, particularly since her mother is not here to help her, and her father is gone, too, dying a hero in the Queen's service."
Lady Pottersbee inspected Mrs. Welwright through her lorgnette, a little finger curled ever so slightly. "Perhaps Juliette's mother should have thought of what would become of her children when she married a soldier rather than making one of the brilliant matches that were offered. She was even considered as a bride for Prince Edward, I'm told," she commented in an icy tone. "Why should I have to make compromises now, when Juliette's own mother was, too foolishly romantic to think about the future? Tuition is the source of reimbursement for your teaching services here, Mrs. Welwright. Or hadn't you considered that?"
Mrs. Welwright looked Lady Pottersbee directly in her steel-gray eyes. "I have thought of that, Lady Pottersbee. But surely Miss Fayton's could do without more tuition from Juliette Clayton. She is such a bright girl, thoughtful of others and with a curious, probing mind. And there is so little remaining in the funds her father left her. It is not right to turn out a fine student when-"
"Yes!" Lady Pottersbee interrupted, rising to her feet in a rustling of her taffeta umbrella skirt. "And that is precisely the point, is it not, Mrs. Welwright? There is very little left in her father's funds, barely enough, and already she is working in the kitchen. Just how much leniency do you expect Miss Fayton's to allow?”
'This school has been in my care since Lord Pottersbee died. God rest his soul, and I don't intend to see it mismanaged now. Miss Fayton's needs higher tuition from all the girls and Juliette Clayton is the only one who cannot pay it. Already concessions have been made. Not only was she given a room in the attic when she couldn't pay for a better one, but she was given the opportunity to work in the kitchen. Truly I feel we have been generous enough!"
"It is not Christian to throw the girl out!" Mrs. Welwright said in the tone her students referred to as her battle cry.
"But it is not practical to keep her!" Lady Pottersbee's voice was just as firm.
The two women glared at each other, and both of them would have been shocked had they realized that the subject of their disagreement, Juliette Clayton, was at the moment three floors below in the pantry being pawed by the footman, Stewart Drake.
Cruelly Drake pressed his fingers against her wrist bone, noting Juliette didn't shrink with fear and pain as the other housemaids had always done. But he already knew this one was different-fancied herself a lady she did, in spite of her position at Miss Fayton's. For weeks now he had been awaiting an opportunity to show her exactly who was in charge here, but now, just when he expected her to cower she turned on him furiously.
"Take your hands off me, Mr. Drake! And if you must persist in this forward and rude behavior, I will report you to the butler!"
"The butler, you say?" Drake laughed a throaty bellow. 'That old drunk? Do you think he would interfere with anything I do when it's me who does his work for him the times he's too full o' the bottle to do it himself?" He squeezed her wrist tighter, glad to see a flicker of pain come into her magnificent eyes-eyes that haunted a man. "And anyway, I'll just tell him that you lured me in here. It'll be your word against mine, and it's you who has the reputation to keep, isn't it?" He laughed. "We men are expected to have a little fun you know. But you girls-" He wagged a thin white finger at her. "You know what people say about girls like that. And already old Lady Pottersbee is looking to throw you out on your fancy little arse."
Juliette's face dropped, and seeing her hesitation, Drake's voice became wheedling. "Now Miss Clayton Juliette," he continued, his other -white hand reaching for her other wrist. "I don't want to hurt you. Give me a kiss or two and a little touch of those sweet tits of yours, and I'll let you go. It's not often I come across such a pretty girl all alone."
"No! You will let me go now and leave me alone," Juliette countered, realizing she was cornered and there was little to stop him from taking any liberty he chose. "You followed me here; it's not by accident, that we're alone. You planned this like you did with the other girls. Now let me go before I go straight to Lady Pottersbee about you. If I'm to be thrown out anyway, at least I can get you dismissed as well. Now let me got And next time save your attentions for someone who doesn't find you as repulsive as I do!"
Drake's eyes crawled over the girl. She was wearing a serving gown with gray puffed sleeves, high white starched collar, and white scalloped cap. But even in this plain garb, Juliette Clayton was astonishingly desirable.
A suggestive smile played on Drake's lips. Such women are sent by the devil to torment men such as me, he thought, a sneer crossing his face. And what fun to tear off that demure dress and fondle her flesh. He had imagined over and over how the young firmness of her breasts would feel, and had wondered if the t
riangle of hair where her thighs met was as golden and pale as that on her head. Now he would see!
In a swift swing of his arm meant to terrify her, Drake swept off her cap with his arm, unleashing her torrent of blond curls tumbling down her back. He expected her to scream, to retreat, and was astonished when she came at him like a fury, slapping him soundly across the jaw, and kicking him on the shin bone.
Stewart Drake howled like a wounded dog. "Bitch!" he screamed, grasping his leg and drawing it up as he hopped on the other. "Who do you fancy yourself?" He rubbed his leg vigorously, an evil glint in his eye. "You may think you are better than me, but you have to work for a living just like the rest of us downstairs and that puts us all on the same level, whether you like it or not."
Juliette raised her chin, brushing her hair back from her face. "I don't mind working," she retorted. "But I am not like the maids who are afraid of you."
Drake let his leg down and winced before his mouth twisted sarcastically. "Still Miss High-and-mighty, are you? Well, let me tell ye, my smart little lassie. You may have had noble ancestors on your mother's side, but they abandoned her when she married the likes of your father. Now that he's dead you haven't seen any of your relatives rushing to pay your tuition to this fancy school. So what's to become of you now that your father's money is nearly run out, huh? Do you think one of those high stepping' lords is going to want to marry a penniless waif like you?" He hooked a thumb to his chest. "When you realize a few things you'll be happy old' Stewart Drake gives you the time o' day. Pretty house maids of your sort are common fare, ye know."
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