Golden Paradise Part 7

"Let me do that," Stefan softly said, moving toward her, seating himself beside her, brus.h.i.+ng her hands aside without waiting for her answer.

"I hate you, you know," Lisaveta whispered, the dampness between her thighs a contradiction to her words, her hand lifting to glide over Stefan's sharply defined pectorals, the dark hair on his chest rough to her touch, the feel of him beneath her hand the ant.i.thesis of hate.

"It doesn't matter," he answered, not about to argue the illogic of her declaration, his slender fingers deftly sliding her glittering b.u.t.tons free. It doesn't matter what you call it, he thought-for her desire was evident and obvious, her face and neck and throat pinked with excitement, her hips moving languidly as if antic.i.p.ating his entry-as long as you feel it. A moment later when his hand slid under her opened bodice and beneath the silk of her chemise, stroking the pliant softness of her breast, her eyes closed and she moaned softly. He smiled. Her hate, he reflected, as his other hand crumpled the blue silk of her skirt upward over her legs, had a tantalizing focus.

She had only to look at him, she contemplated, mortified and indefensible against his presence, to feel herself open in welcome, and when he touched her, her skin took on a heated glow. Tonight was all she dared stay, the terminus and final allowance of her submission to Stefan's dominating pa.s.sion. Tonight, she told herself, even as she reached for him, just one last time tonight and then she'd walk away from this overwhelming compulsion.

She was wet before he touched her there, she was hot and damp and slick as cream when he slid his fingers in to rouse her and test her need and give her pleasure. She uttered a small cry, swallowed partly in her throat when his fingers reached the quivering limits and stroked, a trembling ecstasy shuddering through her senses. Before he could even undress her she climaxed, as if the long and celibate day had been frustrating and wearing on her restraint, as well.

He kissed her open mouth then, drawing in her small panting breaths, taking pleasure in her need for him, thinking with an unhurried tranquillity that he liked the feel of her silk gown next to his skin.

"And now it's my turn, greedy child," he murmured into the sweetness of her mouth. Drawing her into his arms, he rose with her to a comfortable position against the painted headboard, gilded with Venetian exuberance, rosy-skinned putti and garlanded borders. Without speaking and with a pertinent haste indicating his own ardent libido, Stefan lifted Lisaveta and balanced her above his rigid arousal. She helped him then because he needed one hand to draw up her ruffled skirt and petticoat, the practical design of her lacy drawers no impediment, and she guided him until they were in perfect conjunction. It was his turn to groan softly, his dark lashes drifting downward as she closed around him, and it seemed, he thought for a moment, sliding slowly upward as though paradise had taken corporeal form, as though physical and spiritual experience coalesced into one beautiful woman seated astride him. He understood in a single explosive revelation, strangely rose-hued and glowing, why so many religions had over the millennia wors.h.i.+ped female deities.

This intense pleasure searing his mind and body was centered on her hot female body, on the perfect melting fit of her around him, on the slippery gliding invasion, on his possession of her. Suddenly he was desperately rampant, like a volcano about to explode.

He resisted the impulse as long as he could because he understood the gratification in delay, but Lisaveta's voluptuous b.r.e.a.s.t.s were brus.h.i.+ng his chest as she moved on him, her soft bottom enticing against his thighs, her kisses wet and warm and delicious, and even repressing his need, he knew it would soon be over.

The long hours of wanting her were taking their toll, her scent alone bewitching, and she languidly eased herself back down each time with exquisite slowness. She remembered what he liked, she was deliberately pleasing him. She didn't hate him, he knew, nor he her. A scant pulse beat later, his hands closed harshly on her waist, forcing her down as he thrust upward, and when she cried out he poured into her as though he hadn't climaxed in a hundred years.

He didn't move afterward for long minutes, incapable of action or even thought. Only feeling held reign, and he clasped Lisaveta in his arms while paradise receded in slow degrees.

She kissed him first then, in the quiet of the enormous room where he'd placed her for exactly this purpose, and wondered how she could still want him so, knowing that.

He kissed her back without profound contemplation of the unanswerable questions; he kissed her back because she gave him unique pleasure and an odd inexplicable happiness and he liked the feel of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest.

He undressed her much later when their bodies had cooled- or more appropriately, mildly cooled, since their pa.s.sion was undiminished, only temporarily a.s.suaged-and had her wash herself so he could watch.

"If you don't mind," he said.

"If you'll let me wash you next," she softly replied.

"And if I say no," he answered, his voice playful, for she could do what she wished with his blessings.

"Then," she said, with arched brows and a temptress's smile, "I suppose I'll have to tie you up first."

Her statement had predictable effect on his arousal and his own smile was wolfish. "In that case I'll decidedly say no."

As it turned out, neither was patient enough for prolonged games, too ravenous for each other. The remainder of the night pa.s.sed in simple tender pa.s.sion, more amorous than erotic, more precious in its closeness than its l.u.s.t. Lisaveta knew each moment brought her nearer to losing him; Stefan wasn't interested in exploits but in holding her near, and the rapture of their lovemaking was conspicuous for its need and naked disclosure of their feelings.

Very late, when they lay exhausted in each other's arms, Lisaveta whispered, "Stepka," the sound of his name a sigh of sated pleasure.

He stiffened for a moment. No one but his father had ever called him by the diminutive Stepka, and he hesitated briefly, equivocal responses racing through his mind.

Then Lisaveta smiled up at him as she lay on his chest, her chin propped on her hands, and he decided he liked the sound of the name when she said it. The tension drained from his muscles, and although Lisaveta didn't realize it, she'd set the first wedge in some very long-standing defenses erected years ago by a young adolescent determined never to succ.u.mb to love.

"My sweet Lise," he murmured, and kissing his fingertip, he gently brushed it across her luscious bottom lip. "I adore you."

Her smile was winsome, her eyes bright suddenly with tears. "The feeling, Stepka, darling," she whispered, "is mutual."

The room was still in shadow when he felt her pull away. "Where're you going?" Although drowsy and half-asleep, he automatically tightened his arm around her.

"To ring for chocolate." She knew it was Stefan's habitual start to the day.

"Now?" His eyes were closed, his murmured question husky with sleep.

"For later."

"Ring later, sleep now," he muttered, and tugged her closer.

They'd been up most of the night, and if Lisaveta hadn't been taut with nerves over her departure, she would have been sleeping, too. She lay quiescent in his arms for what seemed ages, waiting for his breathing to deepen, and long minutes later when he rolled over, she slipped from his embrace.

She stood by the bed, nude in the cool morning light, the summer air smelling of damp lilies from the garden below, watching him out of caution but also out of her own poignant need. She wouldn't see him again and she wanted a last look before she walked away from the most perfect and beautiful days of her life.

Her gaze traveled lovingly down the great length of his body and then up again with lingering slowness as if she could etch on her memory forever the sight of him. He'd rolled over so his face was resting on his pillow, and she visually traced the perfection of his cla.s.sic features, in profile now, like Alexander's head on a Macedonian coin. Since Alexander had conquered Persia centuries earlier, perhaps the cla.s.sic genes were truly incorporated. There was much of his mother's elegant Persian heritage, too, in the refined detail of his severely modeled features, in the beauty of his long-lashed eyes and the delicate curve of his mouth. In height and stature, in musculature and strength, he must favor his father however, she thought. Field Marshal Bariatinsky was reputed to have equaled his ancestor Orlov in size.

She looked for a moment more at his slender hands, the great corded muscles running down either side of his spine, the softness of his curls lying like black silk on his neck and the sleek broad expanse of his bronzed body, as if tying the parcel of her memories together.

"Goodbye, Stepka," she murmured so softly the words never touched the air, and then silently moved away from the bed to the adjoining dressing room. Her clothes were all gone from the wardrobe, packed by silent hands in the night...only one traveling gown was left hanging in the armoire. She smiled, hoping whoever had quietly seen to the disposition of her luggage hadn't been disturbed by the noises from the adjacent bedroom.

She liked the choice of traveling dress, she decided. The soft pink linen was perfect for a summer day. Lifting the jacket from the hanger, she noticed the note tucked into her pocket. "Please keep the pearls as a remembrance of our meeting. They do your beauty justice." And Militza had signed her name in a spidery Arabic penmans.h.i.+p. Lisaveta reached up to touch the earrings still in her ears and smiled, reminded of how Stefan had told her he liked her dressed only in her earrings.

How generous Militza was, she reflected...like her nephew, who had given her love and laughter and enchantment she would always treasure. But she would leave the necklace; it was too precious... and-lying as it was on the bedside table-too close to Stefan. She dared not return to the room.

"Thank you, Militza," she murmured, tucking the note back into the pocket, knowing the pearl drop earrings would remind her always of Tiflis and a night of love and pa.s.sion. And remind her, too, of a man who had taken hold of her heart.

She dressed after that with a calculated briskness, forcing her thoughts on her journey ahead, refusing to become maudlin over a situation that had always had a foreseeable end. Leaving by the servants' entry into a back hallway, she found her way to the wide empty second-floor corridor, walked the length of the east wing to its juncture with the ma.s.sive curving central staircase and, moving down the polished marble steps, reached the main entrance. Opening the door herself in the servantless palace, she saw her carriage, as arranged, waiting for her.

With a small bow the coachman explained a valise of roubles had been placed inside the carriage for her, and he and the two outriders were at her disposal.

She was comfortably seated with the friendly informality typical of Stefan's staff, the carriage door was closed, and at the crack of a whip the horses broke into a gentle trot.

The morning sun was a perfect summer maize.

The air was tepid and calm.

Stefan's white marble palace, crowning the heights above Tiflis, began diminis.h.i.+ng in size. It was over.

When Stefan woke two hours later, he lazily rolled on his back and with a casual sweep of his arm reached out for Lisaveta. Only the smoothness of silk sheets, the great expanse of empty bed, met his hand, and he swore even before he fully opened his eyes.

d.a.m.n her! Instantly alert, he snapped his head around but knew without looking she was gone. Furious, he shouted for his valet and lunged out of bed. Reaching for his trousers, he thought it odd when Ellico didn't appear. He shouted again. As he swiftly dressed, he cautioned himself to deal with his feelings less emotionally, although for a man who operated a good deal on instinct, curbing his emotions required more control than he was currently feeling. Perhaps, he suggested to himself, trying mightily to gain a calm perspective at the same time he was cursing b.u.t.tons that failed to b.u.t.ton rapidly enough, Lisaveta was in the dressing room or on the balcony. Perhaps, he thought, pulling on his boots with a small grunt of exertion, she rose early and was breakfasting with Militza.

Like h.e.l.l, his dominant pa.s.sion noted as he grabbed his s.h.i.+rt and strode to the bank of French windows facing east. Pus.h.i.+ng the gauze curtains aside, he scanned the small balcony adjoining the bedroom because he was going to take five seconds to be reasonable.

She wasn't there...

His nostrils were flared in anger as he crossed the large bedchamber to the dressing room door, and shoving it open with the palm of his hand, he stood in the doorway and swore.

"d.a.m.n her!"

He could scratch the possibility of her breakfasting with Militza.

He could reject other possibilities of her presence in other areas of his palace, as well. From the looks of the armoire, stripped clean of her gowns, his darling lover had flown the coop.

"Ellico!" he roared, turning to retrace his steps, recrossing the s.h.i.+rvan rug in almost a run. He was out the door into the hallway before he considered how curious it was that his voice wasn't heeded. In the next moment, discarding speculation on his servants' inefficiency, he refocused on the important overriding issue of Lisaveta's escape. His choice of word in regard to her leaving was symptomatic of his military background or perhaps more aptly of his proprietary feelings.

Striding down the corridor, he shrugged into his s.h.i.+rt while his mind raced over all the possibilities of her destination. Or more importantly, when she had left; her destination was, in his current frame of mind, not likely to be reached. Tucking in his s.h.i.+rttails with a minimum effort, he covered the distance down the carpeted pa.s.sage with haste, distracted from the unusual quiet by more prominent considerations. When, exactly, had she left? Had she traveled by carriage... or horse? She had luggage, of course; she'd have gone by coach. Good. He could overtake her more easily.

The Orbeliani family motto was, I Am G.o.d's Spoiled Child, and Stefan had been operating too many years under that maxim to deny himself anything. He wanted Lise, so he would have her. Regardless. And that word encompa.s.sed a myriad of disastrous possibilities he chose to ignore.

At the stables he paced restlessly while Cleo was being saddled, intent on taking off in pursuit, agitated at every moment lost, knowing each minute placed Lisaveta farther out of reach. She'd be traveling to Vladikavkaz where the railway line ended. The military road was the only one out of the Caucasus. At least he didn't have to deal with numerous possibilities. Glancing up at the sun he disgruntledly thought, d.a.m.n, it was late.

"When did Countess Lazaroff leave?" he asked tersely.

"Orders were to have the first carriage ready at seven." A minimum staff had been left at the stables to service the carriages for Lisaveta and Nadejda.

Stefan's dark brows rose. "First carriage?"

"Princess Taneiev leaves at nine."

"She's leaving?" The pleasure in Stefan's voice was noticeable.

"Only to the Viceroy's palace, Your Excellency." The young groom's tone was sympathetic. Servants always knew all the gossip, and the relations.h.i.+p between Stefan and his fiancee was common knowledge.

If Lisaveta had left at seven he'd need Haci and some of his troopers, Stefan decided, Nadejda dismissed from his mind much as he'd dismissed her from his life. Lise had nearly two hours' head start and Cleo couldn't overtake her alone. He'd need fresh horses.

"Find Haci-I'll finish that," he said briskly, taking the bridle from the groom. "Where the h.e.l.l is everyone?" he asked next, finally consciously noticing the dearth of servants. Normally the stable yard was bustling with activity in the morning, since Stefan kept a string of racers and polo ponies that had to be exercised. He had a stable crew of fifty.

"Princess Taneiev is bringing in French servants, Your Excellency, from the Viceroy's palace. For her parents' dinner tonight. The staff is off for the day."

"The staff is what?" Stefan's voice was a low resonant growl.

"Off, sir." The boy's eyes were innocent.

"Everyone?"

"Yes, sir."

"On whose orders?" There was a distinct rumble of leashed fury beneath his soft tone.

"I don't know, sir." Georgi had made it plain Princess...o...b..liani was to be protected.

"Well, who told you?"

"Georgi, Your Excellency."

"Get him!"

"He's gone, sir."

"h.e.l.l." Stefan jerked the bridle buckle in irritation and almost got bitten for his temper, since Cleo's equine personality was far from placid. "Sorry," he quickly apologized to his horse. "d.a.m.n women," he went on as though his mount understood, and perhaps she did, because she nuzzled Stefan's s.h.i.+rtfront as if in sympathy. "Get Haci, then, dammit. I don't fancy he was dismissed." A mild sarcasm underlay his gruff tone. "And where do you keep my rifle and revolver?" The weapon mounts on his saddle were empty.

"In the tack room, sir...in the gun cabinet."

"Thank you-hurry-don't be alarmed," Stefan added, altering his menacing rumble. "I'm not angry with you." He could see the young man's apprehension had mounted at his own increasing irritation. "But b.l.o.o.d.y hurry," he softly emphasized.

Already his thoughts were moving forward to a.s.sess the various points where Lisaveta would have to stop to change horses. In that respect he had a distinct advantage. He and his troopers could travel almost twice as fast as a coach. Twice as fast, for certain, he corrected himself, with the state of the military road to Vladikavkaz. He did the simple arithmetic in his head, traced the backtracking in his mind and gauged their estimated arrival at his mountain lodge. By four o'clock at the latest. How nice. He could show Lise the magnificent mountain sunset.

And he smiled for the first time since waking, a man once more in control.

Chapter Six.

Fifteen minutes later-ten minutes too late for General Prince Orbeliani-Bariatinsky, who had sat mounted, snapping orders, since Haci and his men had arrived on the run-the troop of mounted men galloped out of the stable yard. Sweeping around the west wing of the palace, kicking the carefully raked gravel drive into shambles, they found themselves on a collision course with the carriage waiting for Nadejda. She was late and only now strolling down the bank of marble stairs, her parasol up against the mild morning sun.

Upon sighting Stefan, she stopped poised on the first landing and delicately waved her white gloved hand.

Oh, h.e.l.l! Stefan thought. d.a.m.nation! They could have swerved around, avoiding both the carriage and his tedious fiancee, but, influenced by years of good manners, he hauled Cleo to a sudden skidding halt, his troopers followed suit in a chaotic rearing stop behind him.

Delicately fanning away the cloud of dust rising from milling horses, Nadejda smiled in greeting, as though she and Stefan were meeting on a promenade. "Good morning, Stefan. Isn't it a delightful day?"

h.e.l.l, no, Stefan thought, ba.n.a.l phrases, in his current mood, only further ignition to his anger. Nadejda made an incongruous picture on his palace steps. He'd never thought of her as actually living in his home. A fiancee seemed apart somehow-a name one referred to in conversation, a distant future, as in someday-ay-ay-ay, bride. His only memories of her were as his beautiful companion at b.a.l.l.s and parties in Saint Petersburg. But she would be actually physically installed in his home. The second small fissure in his staid and practical image of matrimony appeared. Nadejda at table last evening had been the first appalling crack.

Cleo, recognizing perhaps Stefan's impatience, was sidling nervously, dancing in staccato prancing agitation at the base of the stairs.

"Give my regards to your parents," Stefan said with civility if not good humor, but he couldn't bring himself to extend his greeting to their host, the Viceroy. Although he and Prince Melikoff often met in public since both were prominent figures in the Caucasus, Stefan's enmity toward the usurper of his father's post was undiminished. Melikoff was essentially a courtier, neither a soldier nor a diplomat, and he treated the native tribes with the arrogant disdain of that clique. With his own heritage from his mother's family closely linked to the native tribes, Stefan not only resented Melikoff s parochial vision but took personal affront at his ethnic slurs.

Nadejda stood twirling her parasol in what seemed to Stefan an irritating affectation and Cleo was about to take a nip out of someone if he didn't get moving soon. "Darling," Nadejda replied, her lashes lowered and raised in some ridiculous flirtatious parody, "you can offer your regards to Mama and Papa yourself. I'm on my way now to fetch them."

Luckily Stefan couldn't see his troopers' expressions behind him for they were exchanging amused glances after having just been hauled away from their breakfast in order to accompany their Prince on a scorching chase after his escaped lover. Being Muslim, they saw no ethical problems in having more than one woman; they were allowed four wives. None of them, however, quite understood what their Prince had seen in the blond woman with the lavender eyes and too-sweet voice. He normally had better taste in women. Having served him as bodyguard for years, they were in a position to know his tastes.

"I'm sorry to have to miss your mama and papa, but orders came in this morning and I must leave." Stefan's voice was mild, but his grip on Cleo's reins was straining the muscles in his right arm.

"Nonsense, Melikoff can rescind any orders. I'll simply tell-"

"No." His voice interrupted, restrained and taut. "Melikoff gives no orders to me."

"Don't be silly, Stefan, he's the Tsar's representative for the entire Caucasus." She spoke as though she were informing him of one of life's basic facts.

"I take orders directly from the Tsar, not Melikoff."

She made the mistake of stamping her foot. It was exactly the wrong thing to do in the current circ.u.mstances, although with Stefan's personality, perhaps it would always be objectionable. "You can't go," she unmistakably said.