Crook & Flail

by Maira Isabel Pita

  Crook and Flail

  Maria Isabel Pita

  Grief has brought Lucia, a young widow, to Egypt, where she hopes the ancient ruins will provide an escape from her overwhelming loneliness. She doesn’t expect to find Mark, who tries very hard to take her late husband’s place in her life. Her interest in him can’t erase the memory of the man she still loves more than anything, though—the man she called her Master—especially when she begins to catch haunting glimpses of Richard in the mysterious shadows of tombs and temples. And even as Mark tries to capture her heart, Lucia becomes convinced that Richard is passionately trying to communicate with her from what the ancient Egyptians called the land beyond the sunset.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  Crook and Flail

  ISBN 9781419919640

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Crook and Flail Copyright 2008 Maria Isabel Pita

  Edited by Ann Leveille

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book publication December 2008

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

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  Crook and Flail

  Maria Isabel Pita

  “The manner in which the spiritual generates and interacts with the physical is the basis of the entire Egyptian doctrine.”

  John Anthony West

  Chapter One

  Lucia awakes when two slender arms of sunlight begin reaching across the bed for her.

  It is a wonderful few seconds before she focuses on the black rocks of her suitcases strewn across the sandy carpet and her loss washes over her again in a sickening wave.

  Reaching blindly for the nightstand, she threads her watch between her fingers like a golden asp and raises it over her dark brown eyes.

  It is five o’clock in the afternoon.

  She makes herself get out of bed and pulls open the blue curtains over the glass doors.

  From inside the room all she can see is sky.

  * * * * *

  After showering away the weariness of thousands of miles along with dead skin cells, Lucia slips into a long and sleeveless white cotton housedress then dials room service.

  A short while later, after she has lazily unpacked the bare essentials, a man in native robes delivers her martini. She steps out onto the balcony with it.

  Far below her, on the avenue separating her hotel from the river, small cars swerve recklessly around men on bicycles and black horse-drawn carriages.

  Sipping her drink, Lucia loses her thoughts in the urgent motion but the modern eruption soon spends itself as rush hour draws to a close, making the ensuing peace taste even sweeter.

  Emptying her glass pyramid of its last drop of vodka, she gives herself over to the beauty of the twilight. The setting sun casts a sparkling path of stars across the water and beyond the narrow belt of greenery visible on the opposite bank of the Nile, desert mountains curve sensuously against the pale sky, the cool breeze wafting in from the west a delicious, living caress to her skin after the stale atmosphere of three airplanes.

  She is seeing the ancient view with her eyes but she is thinking about Richard. She is always thinking about Richard. Even when she is concentrating on something, else her heart continues beating the memory of Ri-chard, Ri-chard, Ri-chard relentlessly, so that the undying thought of him colors everything… The desert is the world’s bared flesh and, like everything else, it reminds her of him and of how much she misses fucking him. She had lived to feel him come, to feel him come hard, wherever he wanted to. Sometimes he had climaxed so deep in her mouth that his cum poured straight down her throat, and she missed not being able to taste him. Sometimes he had ejaculated over her face, blinding her with a hot blizzard of sperm that tasted like nothing else in the world because it was all him. She would eagerly lick her lips and then open her mouth to catch the last drops of his pleasure on her tongue. She had never been happier than when his penis was inside her—in her womb, naturally, in her ass, even better, but especially in her mouth.

  The sun, glowing like a warm and infinitely sweet drop of honey now, begins dipping into the tombs honeycombing the western hills.

  She remains haunted by the memory of her favorite position, lying on any suitable surface with her head hanging back off the edge so he could either kneel or stand as he fucked her mouth, caressing her taut cheeks and vulnerable throat, sinking in deep. Then sometimes he wouldn’t move at all—he would just stand there filling her with him and nearly choking her. She would hardly be able to breathe and yet she had relished every uncomfortable second of it because it was his penis her tongue was savoring, his head that was selfishly stroking her throat, his balls that were making her every inhalation hot and difficult and totally delicious since it was all him she was breathing in. Then, finally, he would begin moving and she would feel his erection pulsing in rhythm with her heart as his orgasm approached…

  Abruptly realizing that the sun has disappeared and she can no longer see anything except the river’s ghostly reflection, Lucia reluctantly turns back into the room and dresses for dinner.

  She slips off her long white housedress and exchanges it for a black bra that snaps closed in front, black bikini panties made out of breathable cotton and a sleeveless black dress with a low scoop neck that falls to mid-thigh and clings gently to her curves. Finally she slips on black strap high-heeled sandals, her watch and golden hoop earrings. She has never taken off her large diamond wedding ring and she never will.

  * * * * *

  The dining room of the four-star Etap hotel is surprisingly crowded.

  Waiting to be seated, Lucia gazes shyly into the roaring sea of diners.

  From a few tables away lapis-lazuli blue eyes meet hers and instantly make her aware of her beauty for the first time in months.

  The native hostess, lovely in a form-fitting green dress trimmed with gold thread, returns. “This way, madam,” she says in a melodic accent and leads Lucia over to a small table privately situated behind a magnificent lily plant in full bloom.

  Waiting for a menu, Lucia contemplates the white flowers thrusting out from between the dark-green leaves. The curved blossoms always make her think of cobras poised to strike.

  A waiter in a traditional white galabiyya materializes at her elbow. “Madam,” he says, handing her a menu, “there is a gentleman who wishes to know what you w
ould like to drink.”

  She ignores her pulse’s eager reaction. “Tell the gentleman that he is very kind,” she replies, “but that I’ll order for myself when I’m ready.”

  “Yes, madam!” His grin startles as it makes her think of the crescent moon fallen to earth. “I will tell him, then be back.”

  Conflicting emotions begin seriously fighting each other in her pulse, for the first time in nearly two years, when a moment later she sees the young man with the stunningly direct stare heading her way. He is tall and lean in black jeans and a white button-down shirt that make his shoulders look breathtakingly broad. His dark hair is combed straight back away from his face to fully reveal an ideal bone structure gilded by a soft golden tan.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” he says in a pleasantly pitched, quiet voice that doesn’t sound in the least bit apologetic, “but I couldn’t let you get away without at least asking your name.”

  “Lucia Taylor.”

  “Mark Russell and it’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you traveling alone, Lucia?”

  “Yes,” she says quickly and then feels compelled to add, “I’m a widow.”

  “I’m sorry.” He pauses respectfully. “How long has it been?”

  “Seventeen months, three weeks and four days.”

  “Wow,” he murmurs, clearly impressed by the time-keeping abilities of her grief. “And you’re trying to forget your sorrow by seeing the world?” he asks abruptly, holding her eyes.

  Strangely enough, his rather rude honesty feels much better to her than the polite sympathy she has been dealing with for so long. “Yes,” she replies and then, without even knowing she intended to, she asks, “won’t you join me, Mark?”

  He promptly pulls out the chair directly across from her. “Would you mind?”

  “Why do men always respond to a question with a question?”

  “I don’t know,” he seats himself, “why do we? What would you like to drink, Lucia?”

  “Wine, please.”

  “Some Chardonnay perhaps?”

  “Why do men always assume a woman drinks white wine?”

  “Sorry.” He smiles briefly, amused by her defensive fencing. “What are you planning to order?”

  “I don’t know yet. Perhaps you can recommend some of the local dishes?”

  “Thank you for trusting me, Lucia.”

  “Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”

  “Absolutely no reason at all.”

  Their waiter appears right on cue with a second menu. Mark studies the selections in silence for a moment and then confidently orders what sounds like an exotic feast to Lucia. The Egyptian then solemnly collects both menus and departs without bothering to ask her if she wants anything else.

  “If I ate like that all the time,” she remarks, “I’d be as fat—”

  “As the Queen of Punt but this is the special occasion of our meeting, Lucia, and you certainly don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Amazed by his reference, she focuses on the brood of lilies. “You’re an Egyptologist?”

  “No,” he replies with feeling. “I’m a photographer working closely with Egyptologists at the moment, a breed of human being all their own, believe me.”

  This remark elicits a smile from her. “I do. I nearly studied Egyptology myself.”

  “Well, that’s not surprising. Every time you look in the mirror you see a true Egyptian queen. The Egyptians weren’t black, you know.”

  “Oh please.” She shoos the compliment away like a mosquito, disappointed by his unoriginality.

  “If it wasn’t true, Lucia,” he crosses his arms over his chest, “I wouldn’t have said anything so trite. Except for your skin, which is just a bit too pale, and quite beautiful by the way, your face is completely Egyptian, from your full, mm…exquisitely shaped lips to your eyes… What can I possibly say about your eyes that would do them justice? And finally, that long dark hair… How long will you be in Thebes?”

  It pleases her that he uses the city’s ancient name rather than the modern “Luxor”. “As long as I like, Mark.”

  “But I’m sure you didn’t marry your husband for his money—you loved him.”

  Once again she finds his bluntness refreshing rather than offensive. “Yes, I loved him,” she hesitates before adding, “he died in a car accident. His name was Richard.” From the corner of her eye she spots their wine approaching. “He was drinking and driving.”

  “Fool.”

  The waiter sets the bottle on the table, goes through the ritual of opening it for them with a pained air and then incorrectly fills both their glasses nearly to the brim before either one of them has approved the vintage.

  Lucia quickly sips her wine to get the familiar taste of bitterness out of her mouth.

  “Kwayyis?” Mark asks her. “Good?” he translates.

  “Yes, very nice,” she says truthfully, “but I really don’t know much about French wines.”

  “Neither do I. I’m a California man myself. Those Napa Valley guys aren’t stupid. They make high quality wines Americans can enjoy without waiting decades. They know we’re not so patient. I’m sorry, Lucia, I shouldn’t have called your late husband a fool. My friends tell me I need to work on my tact.”

  “You mean your hypocrisy?” She raises her glass. “I’ll drink to the way you are now, Mark.”

  He regards her soberly as he chimes his glass against hers. “And how is that?”

  “Brutally direct.”

  He lowers his voice, “So that’s how you like it.”

  She quickly looks back over at the lily plant. “What are you photographing here in Thebes, Mark?”

  “A tomb.”

  “Which tomb?”

  “Nefertari’s.”

  “Really?” She looks at him again. “Are you covering the restoration work being done on it?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I hope they’re able to save it. From what I’ve heard they’ve been working on it for years, something about the salt content in the limestone walls corroding the paintings.”

  “It’s not in good shape but they’re still trying.” He sips his wine.

  How utterly unconcerned he looks makes her suspicious of him again. “So who do you take pictures for, Mark?”

  “I’m somewhat of a freelance artist. I hope you’ll let me show you my work, Lucia. I have a feeling you’d like it.”

  Astonished to feel herself falling into his relentlessly direct stare, she quickly opens a metaphorical parachute sewn from her late husband’s shroud. “Richard was a novelist,” she says shortly. “He wrote best-selling mystery novels with a supernatural slant. Some people called them horror novels but they were a bit more subtle than that.”

  “A tough act to follow.” Mark doesn’t sound in the least bit concerned as he continues enjoying his wine and looking intently into her eyes.

  “What makes you think the play hasn’t ended?” she retorts lightly.

  “Oh I hope not, Lucia, because I know some very good lines.”

  She smiles.

  “You’re even more amazingly beautiful when you smile,” he says quietly.

  She ignores the compliment even though it pleases her, coming from such a strikingly handsome young man. “How long will you be in Thebes?” she asks him.

  The first appetizer is set between them.

  “Shukron,” Mark says and plucks up one of the toasted bread chips.

  “Shukron means ‘thank you’, right?”

  “Aywa.” He scoops up some dip onto the chip, reaches across the table and insinuates the offering between her lips.

  “Mm…that’s very good. What’s in it?”

  “A bunch of stuff, let’s see…ground eggplant, sesame paste, lemon juice, garlic and olive oil, amongst others. Have some more.”

  “How old are you, Mark?” she asks abruptly, as though pulling out a weapon with which to fight him.

  A slight frown knits the skin between his dark eye
brows. “Why do you ask, Lucia?”

  “There you go again, answering a question with a question,” she accuses him mildly.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight. It’s a perfectly reasonable question, Mark.”

  “I’m twenty-three and so what? I get the feeling you’ve been through a lot, Lucia, but now you’re away from it all so just try to relax and enjoy yourself. Okay? That’s an order.”

  “Oh is it?” She smiles to cover up the way her pulse reacts to his commanding tone.

  “Yes,” he thrusts another dip-covered chip between her lips, “it is.”

  * * * * *

  Over an hour later Lucia says, “That kefta kebab was delicious, Mark, and everything else was at least…interesting. Thank you for the recommendations.”

  “It was entirely my pleasure. I’m glad you enjoyed it all.”

  “The kebab was made with ground lamb?” After half a bottle of wine and an assortment of delicious dishes she is feeling relaxed enough to make casual conversation.

  “Ground lamb mixed with onion, parsley, mint leaves, cumin, marjoram, lemon juice, garlic and paprika.”

  “I’ll bet you’re a good cook,” she teases him.

  “No, I just have a great tongue, baby.”

  She laughs. She has not, it strikes her suddenly, laughed this much since before Richard died. “I think I’ve had a little too much to drink,” she remarks self-consciously.

  “Are you kidding? We’ve barely even started.”

  The confidence with which he gestures for the waiter has a conductor-like effect on her senses and emotions and she can’t seem to look away from him even as she protests. “No, Mark, that’s it for me, thanks.”

  “That’s what you think. Fortunately, I know better.”

  “I don’t want anything more to drink,” she insists half-heartedly.

  “Yes, you do,” he insists right back and when their waiter appears he orders a bowl of cold fresh fruit for dessert.