by Pia Tremayne
But there is no other way. This is your chance and you must take it, her mind whispered back insistently.
Taking a deep breath she lifted her head. She had to go on because losing her land simply wasn’t an option. She had to be strong, do exactly what she had planned, which was to be careful not to make this personal and to lock down her emotions and get on with it. She would tell herself that as many times as she needed to. Her face resolute, she picked up her fork.
Half an hour later there was a soft knock on the door. She knew who it was.
“Everything all right, miss?” Hodgett asked as he entered. Without waiting for her reply he crossed the room to the sideboard and picked up the coffee pot. “More coffee?”
“Yes, thank you, Hodgett. Everything was lovely.”
“You can take your coffee into the library, miss. There’s a good selection of books.”
“That’s a great idea, Hodgett. Thank you.”
Chapter Twelve
She opened the door to the library and stepped inside. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the large oil on canvas over the fireplace on the far wall, and she experienced a familiar little rush of pleasure. The Hay Wain. Although he had chosen to make his home in Jamaica, her dad had been adamant that both his daughters be knowledgeable about English art and literature. As a young girl the paintings of John Constable had fascinated her endlessly and on one of their trips to England she insisted they had to visit the actual location on the banks of the River Stour, where Constable executed the initial sketch for the painting.
Impulsively, she walked across the room and stood for a few minutes behind the low settee in front of the Victorian fireplace, lost in the timeless landscape. Even now, she still had that feeling of being drawn into it, of belonging, almost as though she had lived there once upon a time.
She surveyed the rest of the room. It was a typical English reading room. The fireplace was flanked by two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were filled with books. There were corner windows next to each bookshelf, hung with heavy intricately patterned drapes held back by silken rope ties. Along the hunter green walls were intimate nooks for an undisturbed read or even an afternoon nap had been created, with works of art illuminated with picture lighting above, and comfortable armchairs with small tables nearby to hold reading lamps and cups of tea below..
In the center of the room was a good-sized antique wooden worktable with six chairs. Small piles of books lay in random heaps on the table along with a beautifully bound maroon leather and gold volume that stood alone. It was impossible to miss, and she knew immediately that he had intentionally placed it there.
Setting her cup of coffee on the table she drew out one of the chairs, sat down and opened it. It was a volume of The Thousand and One Nights. As a child she had read and thrilled to the mass-produced Tales of the Arabian Nights, in which Aladdin could summon a genie by rubbing a lamp and Ali Baba foiled and boiled the forty thieves in vats of oil. But what she was looking at now was clearly an original execution. The frontispiece was a beautiful illustration of a bare-breasted Scheherazade lying against King Shahriyar on his bed, beguiling him with never-ending tales so she could live to see another day. The lettering of the title page was calligraphy of the highest order, bordered by exquisite illustrations on all four sides.
Thumbing carefully through the pages, she could see the book contained stories that she would not have been allowed to read as a child, sensual stories that had either been deliberately expunged from the sanitized Tales or possibly not yet translated into English. Holding the book carefully she picked up her cup of coffee and walked over to one of the reading nooks. Comfortably settled, she opened the book and was soon lost in Scheherazade’s fascinating world.
She awoke with a start. She must have dozed off. She felt rested but it was impossible to know when exactly she had fallen asleep. Her watch indicated it was four thirty. She stood up and carrying the book carefully, returned it to the table. She gazed down at it reflectively. Was this his way of letting her know that he enjoyed fantasies, her fantasies and that like Scheherazade, relating them to him night after night would keep the arrangement alive? She shook her head, unwilling to accept that. There was no need for him to be so manipulative to get such a straightforward message across. If he wanted a steady stream of fantasies, all he had to do was ask, for heaven’s sake.
Somewhat impatiently, she turned to leave the room, slowing down a little for one more pleasurable look at The Hay Wain. As she did so an object on the low coffee table between the fireplace and the settee caught her eye. It looked like some kind of loose-leaf folio. Curious, she walked over to the settee, sat, and opened it. There were several sheets of old parchment paper inside the cover. The top sheet was inscribed with a couple of lines in illegible hieroglyphics. She turned the sheet over, and her heart thumped against her rib cage and began to race. It was a large sheet of paper folded into four squares, and each square contained a realistic reproduction of men and women dressed in oriental or Middle Eastern garb from days of yore. There was no doubt about what they were doing—illustrating different positions for sexual intercourse. A quick perusal told her there were about twenty such sheets. Leaving the folio flat open on the table she began thumbing through them one by one.
Gradually, as she absorbed the images, time and place seemed to fade, and it was as though she were suspended in time, enclosed in a bubble of sexuality so heavy she could barely breathe. Her hand strayed under her dress, and unconsciously, she pulled away her panties so she could touch herself, little pants of air issuing from her mouth as her fingers connected with the slippery wetness. Her panties became an unnecessary restraint, and lifting her bottom off the couch she drew them off, leaned back into the settee, and propped her feet up on the coffee table. Within seconds she induced a shuddering orgasm that turned her insides to mush. She collapsed against the settee, gasping audibly. Her heart was hammering, slowing gradually as her tremors began to recede like the series of aftershocks that follow an earthquake.
After a while she sat up, only to jump to her feet in dismay as the back of her thigh connected with a damp spot on the settee. Mortified and praying desperately that Hodgett wouldn’t pick that exact moment to check in on her, she snatched her panties off the floor and began using them like a sponge, blotting and rubbing the spot to try and get rid of it, or at least make it less obvious. Cocking her head at different angles, she examined the spot anxiously. Was it so obvious, or was she only seeing it because she knew it was there? Oh well, there was nothing more she could do about it, she decided eventually.
She closed the folio and replaced it, she hoped, in its exact original position on the table. Carrying her cup in one hand and her balled up underwear in the other, she went to the door, opened it, and almost collided with Anthony.
“Oh, there you are,” he exclaimed. “Hodgett told me you might be here. I asked him to take something to your room, and he said you hadn’t answered his knock. He didn’t want to disturb you in case you were having a nap. He said you were in the library earlier so I thought I’d better check on you myself.”
“Yes, I was just going back to my room,” Nicola mumbled, her heart still banging unpleasantly from the shock of opening the door and finding Anthony on the other side. She knew her face was flaming.
“Are you all right? I hope I didn’t rattle you.” His eyes raked her face.
“No, no. Not at all. I’m fine,” she stuttered, her left hand creeping surreptitiously behind her back. She tried to maneuver her way around him, but he shifted and blocked her.
“What’s that you’re hiding behind your back,” he demanded, eyeing her suspiciously.
“Nothing,” she replied, sounding absurdly childish.
“Oh really. Well if it’s nothing, let me see,” he demanded. Reaching around her, he seized her hand forcefully by the wrist and brought it around.
“Well, well,” he exclaimed teasingly as he removed the panties from her ner
veless fingers and shook them out. She lunged for them, but he was too quick and turned sideways, raising his hand in the air, taking them out of her reach.
Facing her directly again, he looked at her intently. “What have you been up to, Nicola?” His eyes held a gleam.
“None of your business,” she retorted.
“I disagree,” he countered, and before she realized what was happening, he had somehow backed her into the wall just outside the door.
“What are you doing? Get off me!” she ordered furiously. She kept her voice low. It would be embarrassing if Hodgett overheard her telling off Sir Anthony.
Without answering, he buried his face in the side of her neck and gave her a love bite.
“That isn’t all you want, is it? You want more, and I must confess, so do I. We’ll fix that later,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ve planned a special dinner for us tonight. Hodgett will serve it in the oriental room.”
“The oriental room?” she gasped out. Her heart was still racing, her chest heaving in frustration.
“Yes. It’s the room right next to yours. I thought it would make a nice change. We’ll eat early, around six thirty,” he said and began walking down the corridor.
“Are you planning on keeping my underwear as a souvenir?” she threw at his departing back resentfully.
He hesitated then faced her with a tantalizing smile. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”
Chapter Thirteen
There was a box on the floor outside her door. She took it into the room with her, laid it on the bed, and removed the cover. Inside were several layers of translucent white wrapping paper.
Nestled inside was a two-piece outfit, red harem pants made up of a gossamer fabric shot through with gold thread and a tiny sequined top to match. She held up the top between her thumbs and forefingers and examined it. It was little more than a piece of string that mightn’t even have made it as a drapery tie-back.
A spurt of defiance flashed through her. Obviously this was what she was supposed to be wearing tonight. He was making it clear he was controlling all the scenarios, controlling her, always leaving her wanting more. In a fit of pique, she decided that tonight she would turn up in jeans and a T-shirt. It took two people to play this game. She wasn’t completely powerless.
It was almost six. When she came out of the shower she went impetuously to the bed and looked at the garment again. What the hell! What did she have to lose?
She put on the costume, which, as far as she was concerned, was exactly what it was and studied the harem dancer looking back at her in the mirror. At least it fit. They were dining in the oriental room. Would he be wearing a costume too? Somehow she couldn’t see it, couldn’t conjure up an image in her mind of him in fancy dress. The very thought was amusing and the harem girl smiled back at her, agreeing.
Still twenty minutes to go. The wait was unsettling. Already her stomach had begun to churn a little with her wondering what he wanted from her tonight and how it would end. What awaited her in the oriental room? The answer came to her. Why wait? Why not check the room out beforehand? That way there wouldn’t be any unpleasant surprises. She really wasn’t into whips and chains or whatever, wouldn’t put up with it. She opened her door decisively and went out.
She tried the door he had indicated, half expecting it might be locked. It wasn’t. She stepped inside and stopped short, her senses swimming as though she had just been transported by a magic carpet into another world, where islands floated in a golden sea like majestic jewels bathed in the light of shimmery silvery moons shining all about them. In a moment her head cleared, and she moved farther into the room and shut the door.
She stood still, taking it all in. She was ankle-deep in the rich gold carpet that covered the floor from wall to wall, its scroll pattern like gently rippling waves. The floating jewels, she saw, were divans placed around the walls, large enough for two. They were covered with crimson cloth and piles of pillows in every hue. The moons, she realized, were large white floor lamps strategically placed around the room near the sofas, their bases concealed from view so that the lamps appeared to float under the stars winking down from the painted ceiling. The walls were covered in deep yellow silk, the windows draped in burgundy velvet. A large low table, a single slab of gold-veined black marble, occupied the center of the room, flanked with low ottomans for seating.
The room was an escape, a room for the senses, an invitation to surrender and let one’s self be seduced. She could feel it beginning to work its magic on her, stealing softly into her mind, erasing everything except the need to have Anthony finish what he had started just one hour ago. Feeling little tendrils of heat swirling deep in her belly she went to the divan facing the door and sat to wait for him.
Promptly at six thirty, the door opened. Anthony entered and stood still, enchanted. Walking to his car after a meeting over lunch with a major import-export distributor, he had detoured to Edgeware Road near Marble Arch to touch base with the owner of a successful Middle Eastern restaurant in which he had a financial interest. The outfit was in the restaurant window—window dressing that the owner insisted Anthony take as a gift once he discerned that it had piqued Anthony’s interest. He had had an epiphany then, a vision of her in it. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality.
She was seated on the divan, one leg drawn up, the other stretched out. She was mesmerizing, exotic. She shimmered. Her breasts were not large, but the glittery top was so miniscule that it seemed the slightest movement on her part and they would spill from their inadequate restraints. The seams of the panties arrowed teasingly down to her delta, maddening him for what they so brazenly outlined. He wanted to tear it off her. If this was how he was reacting just walking into the room, this was going to be one hard night!
When he ran into her coming out of the library earlier the scent of her, the feel of her, had left him with a hard-on. It had subsided, only just, judging by the dull ache in his crotch. How in hell would he even make it through dinner? He had to get a hold of himself. The evening had barely begun.
“Beautiful,” he said, still standing in the doorway.
She inclined her head. “Thank you. Your taste is extraordinary.”
His gaze rested on her, as though he were trying to discern whether she was simply making fun of him. Her green eyes gazed back at him, guileless. He suspected she had decided not to give him any clue to her thoughts. He still didn’t know enough about her, he realized. He had started out determined to get inside her head, but now he knew the real reason. The nonsensical childish notion of settling old scores had flown out the window. He had stopped fooling himself about that. The real reason was because, one way or another, she had to be his—completely, forever. And he only had six months to make it happen.
“Dinner’s here,” he announced nonchalantly, drawing on every ounce of his savoir faire to mask his craving for her. “Shall I bring it in?”
She inclined her head with Cleopatra-like grace. Leaving the divan, she went to the table and seated herself comfortably on the floor, her legs tucked under her.
He wheeled in a serving cart from the hallway and positioned it just inside the door. He closed the door and began transferring the covered dishes from the cart to the table, setting them down within her reach. Next, he brought over two plates, a set of small bowls, some cutlery, a bottle of red wine, and two glasses, which he placed side by side on the table. He sat beside her, poured some wine into each glass, passed one to her, and picked up the other.
“To the evening,” he said, his eyes on hers. They both took a sip of wine. His gaze dropped to her throat. Picking up the fluttering pulse, he fought down the impulse to still it with his lips. When he looked into her eyes again, he perceived she had read his mind and he blushed.
Turning away, she rested her glass on the table and began to remove the covers from the dishes. “It smells wonderful,” she declared. “Did Hodgett prepare all this?”
He laughed. “Hardly! I
picked it up in London at my favorite Middle Eastern restaurant and brought it back with me. It’s all vegetarian. Is that all right?”
“I’m not a vegetarian, but I enjoy the odd vegetarian meal,” she replied with a smile. The chitchat seemed to dissolve the sexual tension between them and they both became more relaxed, temporarily distracted by the delicious meal laid out in front of them.
“Try this,” he urged, spooning some baba ghannouj into a bowl. He placed it on her plate and laid a few triangles of pita bread at the side. He watched as she dipped the bread and took a bite, then another.
“Heavenly,” she pronounced between bites.
“Is this all just for me?” she asked teasingly, realizing that he was still watching her and hadn’t put anything on his plate.
Hastily, he began helping himself to the food and they fell to it—falafel, tahini, tabbouleh—it was all there and soon, all gone.
“I think I’m done,” Nicola said at last, uncurling her legs. The divan was right behind her, and rather than getting to her feet, she crawled up onto it, unintentionally giving him a full-on view of her backside as the gossamer fabric fell away to her sides.
He was just about to take a sip of wine and his hand froze in mid-air as he stared mesmerized at the sight of her exotically clad bottom as she worked her way across the mattress of the divan toward the wall. Turning around, she sat down, leaned against the wall, looked up and caught him like a deer in the headlights.
And all at once the tension between them returned. They both felt it, filling the room like an amorphous fog, making the air about them feel heavy.
He looked away suddenly. “More wine?” he asked, picking up the bottle.
At her nod he got up and, carrying the bottle and both their glasses, walked around to the side of the divan. He placed the glasses on the small round table next to the divan and poured some wine into them, then set the bottle aside. Handing her one of the glasses, he took the other, stepped up onto the divan, walked in front of her, and sank down cross-legged on her other side, his back against the wall as well.