Love Storm (17 page)

He grinned complaisantly, altogether familiar with the golden goddess and the young girl underneath who had come from the Ukraine six years ago and taken St. Petersburg by storm. "Have a swig, your ladyship. If we're too old to grope together anymore, at least we can get drunk together. To Boris, the fat pig." He toasted, winking at her, and raised the bottle to his lips.

"Oh, Yuri, really, you shouldn't say things like
..."
Then the countess burst into giggles and mirthfully snickered, "I'll drink to that."

"I'm sorry,
ma petite"
Alex was saying as they walked upstairs to their suite. "I saw Yuri in town yesterday and, since he's an old and close friend, I invited him to come out sometime. But Lord, who'd ever think he'd bring Amalie, although he said she had forced her company on him. She's a bitch of the first order. Accept my apologies for her discourtesy to you."

"It's all right, Sasha. I'm just not used to such blunt questions. I'll prepare some answers for the future, and the mendacity will come easier."

Entering the sitting room, Zena glanced up shyly and said, "Is Amalie an old friend, too? She seemed very familiar with you."

"Not a friend," Alex replied curtly, "an acquaintance, my dear, merely an acquaintance. Let's have a drink and then find Bobby and go for a walk."

Yuri stopped by quite often in the following days. He and Alex had been friends since adolescence. In fact, the past weeks of Alex's seclusion with Zena had been the longest separation their friendship had undergone. Normally if Alex retired to his
dacha,
Yuri and assorted females were invited as well.

Yuri had quietly formed his own opinion about Alex's newest paramour. Unlike the amusements in Alex's past, she was more than an idle receptacle for Alex's erotic lecheries. Apparently this observation had not touched Alex as
yet, for he treated her with his usual casualness toward women, albeit with considerably more concern for her wishes than normal.

Yuri hoped he was right in his conclusions. If he wasn't, and Zena was just another of Alex's frivolous fancies, God help her. Alex was carrying on a long family tradition of dalliance. His father's affairs had been legion, although he was virtuous enough today. Yuri was well aware of the broken hearts left in Alex's wake over the past six years. If Alex was just toying with her, Yuri pitied Zena, who was so obviously in love with her seducer. The little
mademoiselle
was no match for the notorious Archer. If Alex really didn't care, he'd break her like a china doll.

One sunny afternoon in March the three were sitting at a table in the small back parlor. Yuri and Alex had been sampling the virtues of several bottles of wine from a recent French shipment. Zena tasted sips of each vintage but had fallen far behind the enthusiastic testing of Yuri and Alex.

The warm sun streamed into the room through Venetian bow windows facing south and west. Both men were lounging in their chairs, restfully content with the peaceful afternoon.

"Quite idyllic here, Sasha. Dammed if it ain't. Beats the hectic pace of St. Petersburg or Moscow."

"Amen," Alex answered and lifted his wine glass in salute before emptying it. He poured out two more glasses.

"Don't have to offer any polite civilities or evade the snares of designing mamas. Oh, by the way, speaking of designing mamas, Malekov bit the dust last week. Lydia finally caught him. He'll be a papa before long, or I miss my guess," Yuri signed deeply. "It'll happen to all of us someday, I fear."

"Not to me," Alex retorted tartly. "I don't want a wife and children."

Yuri winced at the blunt disclaimer. This was Alex at his worst. Yuri glanced at Zena's flushed face in dismay. In a kindly attempt to mitigate Zena's obvious embarrassment at Alex's insensitive remark, Yuri tactfully changed the subject, allowing her time to recover her composure.

"Say, Sasha, do I still have first option on Pasha's latest offspring?"

"Certainly. Want to see the colt? He's magnificent. Excuse us, dear," Alex said to Zena. "I'm going to show Yuri Pasha's latest effort."

Alex went out to the stables with Yuri, totally unaware of the distress he had caused. His remark had been incidental to the occasion and uttered with his customary casual disregard for sensibility. Accustomed to treating women negligently, he was unfortunately immune to the delicate emotions of those recipients of his
dégagé
manners. This quintessential distance he cultivated was a technique honed to perfection through necessity; at a very early age he had been made cognizant of the distinction his name, rank, and wealth signalized in the hopeful eyes of society's maids and mamas. He had been warned by his father to beware of making offers he had no intention of honoring.

"I make these suggestions," Nikki had said many years ago, "for your personal
édification
and also for purely selfish motives. It will save me from having to confront irate friends who accuse me of having raised a roguish scapegrace son who seduces their young daughters' affections. Stay away from virginal young misses of good families," he advised, "if you can. I'm not fool enough to say it's always possible. Many of those sweetly pure maidens are damn anxious to hop into bed too, as we both know. If I didn't love your mother, my boy," Nikki had sighed, "sometimes it's damned trying on one's fidelity, let me tell you. I can understand them running after young bucks like you, but why they continue to be interested in tossing their virtue in my direction is hard to fathom." Nikki's deprecating modesty was ingenuous, for he was, with the exception of gray waves of hair streaking his temples, as fit, splendidly muscled, and unconscionably handsome as ever.

"In the long run," Nikki had cautioned, "you're safer with married women and females of a certain class. They're both in no position to demand marriage. They know as well as you that the game don't end with a wedding."

In Nikki's and Sasha's milieu the game
d'amour
was played by a strict code, and the ladies who participated knew the rules—rules devised by men and operating in a man's world.

At the time, the young boy was of an age to accept advice gracelessly and had heatedly and crudely commented, "I'll fuck whom I please."

To which remark Nikki replied smoothly and calmly, "In that case, I must sharpen my diplomatic skills, which I envision will soon to put to the test." And they were on numerous occasions.

While growing up, Alex came to realize the perspicuity of his father's admonitions and had, by the age of twenty-four, fallen quite easily into society's accepted standards of dalliance, acutely aware by now of the sterling advice his father had imparted. He had attained an exceeding proficiency, indeed an effortless and guarded circumspection. He never promised a woman anything at all.

Zena went upstairs nursing a splitting headache, chilled by Alex's vehement assertion against a wife and children. She lay on the bed paralyzed by the awful fear that Alex might very well soon become a father. She had suppressed acknowledging the obvious signs for several weeks now. Alex's blunt pronouncement had quite thoroughly squashed any girlish dreams of marriage. Consciously she knew better, of course, having accepted his favors as unreservedly as they had been offered. She knew how youthful rakes like Alex felt. He meant no good toward her. Good God, she knew his type and the reputation he must have. She was under no illusions about Alex's companionship. He had promised her nothing more than the comfort of his home and person until such time as she chose to continue her journey. She was the romantic fool, the childish woman who hoped for miracles, who dreamed idiotic dreams, and who wove silly fantasies around a relationship that was for Alex nothing more than a convenience. If he hadn't taken her that night, he would have found someone else to accompany him from St. Petersburg. From Yuri's conversations she had become aware that Alexander Nikalaevich Kuzan was never without a female on his arm. A warm, feminine body in close proximity for his use and comfort was as natural as breathing for him. She was simply the latest of the frivolous sorority.

Zena threw herself down on the bed and indulged in hysterical, uncontrolled sobs. Good Lord!
What
was she going to do?

The tearful emotional storm soon passed, but the headache wouldn't go away as her heinous subconscious apprehensions browbeat her pragmatic restraints. She wanted to stay with Sasha. She wanted him to make love to her. She wanted to wake in the morning feeling the warmth of his body. Those wishes, however impractical, defeated momentarily the assaulting fears. Some residue of sense told her it was madness to care for such an unprincipled rogue, but what chance had reason when she was held in Sasha's embrace.

Strolling into the room an hour later, Alex informed her that Yuri had left. "Some ball at the Strindbergs' tonight. Thank God I don't have to go. This hermitage is quite to my taste. Don't you feel well?" he asked solicitously as he approached the bed.

"Just a little headache, Sasha," Zena admitted. "Nothing serious," she dissimulated valiantly when, in effect, her whole future was in the balance.

"Poor child," he soothed as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Too much wine,
ma petite?"
he probed gently.

"No, I don't think so."

"Just relax, little one," and his long, slim
fingers
massaged her temples with a gossamer fluidity, moving like whispers to lightly brush her eyelids shut, gently stroking the translucent lids.

He soothed her temples, forehead, and eyes in a tranquilizing rhythm. For a man who stood inches above most men, his powerful hands were capable of the most unbelievably delicate touch. What capricious qualities, she reflected, coexisted in the essence of this vital man she loved: cold indifference and tender solicitude; absolute kindness and genuine selfishness; base sensuality and striking self-denial.

"Feeling better?" Alex asked after several minutes.

"Oh, yes, thank you, Sasha. Where did you learn to do that?"

"My nanny was proficient at soothing the most horrendous temper tantrums. I, as you may have noted," he grinned disarmingly, "am used to having my own way."

"It has come to my attention once or twice, my lord," Zena acknowledged demurely.

"I don't suppose you'd care for a drink," Alex said, apparently undeterred by the several bottles of wine consumed that afternoon. He reached for the bedside decanter of brandy, poured himself a glass, and lay down next to Zena, his boots carelessly sprawled on the velvet coverlet.

"Not right now. Sasha, do you always drink so much?"

"Most of the time. It depends. Out here in the country I'm modestly temperate, my dear. You should see us during the war games in August. Don't draw a sober breath for three weeks. It's a miracle some can sit their horses. You, sweet child, intoxicate me with your beauty. I don't need as much liquor," he teased, turning to touch her cheek briefly with the back of his fingers.

"Other than during my retreats to the country Yuri and I are more drunk than sober most of the time. Makes the round of necessary socializing more bearable. Jesus, do I hate those accursed balls. For your ears alone, pet, I confess I have never gone sober to one. Yuri and I usually arrive late and very inebriated. I've found dancing with simpering belles requires a minimum of two bottles of brandy to tolerate the ridiculous flow of chatter. Although," he mused tolerantly, as he raised the glass to his lips, "Yuri and I have had our share of good times." He chuckled. "I guess Yuri knows just about anything there is to know about me."

"Tell me now why he calls you Archer. He does sometimes. Do you really like archery?" Zena asked.

"On occasion," and Alex smiled wickedly at the memory.

"On occasion. You're not overly fond of archery then," she persisted.

"No, dear. But it's nothing you'd be interested in." The iniquitous grin reappeared and whetted Zena's curiosity.

"I want to know," she pouted prettily.

"You'd rather not know. Let me assure you."

Zena sat up in bed and fixed the smiling face with a steely, determined glance.

Alex shrugged resignedly and deprecatingly said, "Oh, very well, I won a contest once."

"What kind of contest?"

"Nothing special. Just sort of a test of competence," he equivocated, looking into the liquor he was slowly swirling in his glass.

"What test of competence? Explain, I'm piqued."

"No, really. It was just a youthful lark," he answered vaguely, still trying to evade.

"Damn you, tell me, you've roused my interest."

"Modesty forbids me . . ." the prince smirked.