Love Storm (43 page)

Yesterday Alistair had pressed her again about marriage. His insistence had been gently couched, as was typical of him, but she felt his urgency nonetheless. Last night in

Zena's restless quest for sleep all the alternatives, options, and obligations of her future swam in muddy confusion through her uneasy, sleepless mind. Could she marry Alistair? Could she live alone? Could she ever forget Sasha? Helpless longing raised havoc with careful logic, and through the long, dim hours of the night she searched for some measure of peace for her troubled spirit.

It was scarcely six o'clock as Zena strolled on the stylish promenade lined with palms, Bobby tripping yards ahead with unrestrained childish energy. The warm rays of the morning sun caught the silken waves of her auburn hair tied up loosely under a wide-brimmed, flower-strewn leghorn hat. Her jonquil yellow lawn dress floated in gentle rhythms in the sea breezes blowing softly from the south. The full sleeves fluttered in tiny ruffled movements as wisps of morning zephyrs danced over the blue Mediterranean. Zena and Bobby were quite alone on the deserted walkway.

Even the adjacent drive was nearly free of carriages at this early hour. Only one open barouche was visible on its slow journey westward. A lounging gentleman was its sole passenger. The man was oddly dressed, a foreigner from the looks of him. He wore the flowing garments of the Middle East and had a brown complexion and a neatly trimmed black beard. The figure resting back against the seat was considerably fatigued, having spent a long and exhausting night gambling in Monte Carlo. He was within sight of his hotel and soon would welcome the comforts of his bedchamber.

Zena continued her leisurely passage along the sea path, oblivious to any external phenomenon and quite preoccupied with her own disordered thoughts.

The normally vivid black eyes of the man in the passing barouche were half closed as he lazily, absently viewed the sea on his left.

Suddenly his eyelids snapped open. In one flash of movement the lounging figure shot upright and barked a harsh command. "Stop!"

The driver obeyed immediately, heedless of his horses' mouths, for he was eminently familiar with the eccentricities and tyrannies of the rich. Swiveling around, he discerned his intently alert passenger focusing on some object in the direction of the water. Casting a look toward the Mediterranean, the driver saw nothing unusual. The blue expanse of water was empty of vessels; only a few seagulls wheeled overhead in search of their breakfast. A woman and a small boy were walking along the promenade; otherwise the view was devoid of interest.

The black-bearded gentleman continued to stare, his eyes narrowed speculatively for a minute. Then he snapped brusquely, "To the hotel quickly!"

The minute the carriage reached the hotel's entrance, the tall, dark-skinned Turk tossed some money at the driver and jumped out. Moving quickly through the lobby, he declined waiting for the lift and raced up the two flights of stairs to his suite. Rushing through the doorway, he immediately uttered several sharp, curt orders.

"Ali, Kufir, Softi, get down to the promenade this instant." His bodyguards jumped to attention from their couches where they had been sleeping. "Follow the woman in yellow with the young child. I want to know where she lives."

Even as their master concluded his commands, the first man was already out the door, followed closely by his two cohorts. Seconds later, the room now deserted, Ibrahim Bey's young nephew Abdulhamit dropped into a chair, leaned back comfortably, flexed his fingertips lightly, and smiled with delight.

He had just seen Delilah.

Unaware of the newly assigned surveillance, Zena and Bobby rested on one of the benches facing the white sand beach. After several minutes of relaxation they journeyed back up the hill to their apartment. The restless night and contemplative walk had been useless. Despite the hours of rumination Zena was no closer to a decision than she had been yesterday.

Why couldn't she drive memories of Sasha from her mind? Then the decision would be so simple. Just say yes to Alistair, and she would be loved and taken care of. Just say yes, she told herself.

But late in the day during teatime when Alistair renewed his suit, Zena didn't say yes. Instead she said, "Please, Alistair, forgive me, but I need more time."

Within the hour Abdul's bodyguards had reported the address, and their master promptly went to bed. After sleeping through until late afternoon, Abdul rose, bathed, dressed, and began to make his plans. One guard had been left on duty throughout the day near Zena's pension, and when he was relieved at six o'clock, Abdul was given additional information from the shopkeepers of the neighborhood.

Delilah, it seems, was a widow. Odd, in the few short months that had elapsed. Was that possible? No matter. What did matter was the fact that she apparently lived alone with the young boy. An Englishman spent much time with her, but she lived alone.

The beautiful, delectable Delilah, it appeared, would grace his harem after all, Abdul gloated. Allah was benevolent.

He must execute his mission for Ibrahim Bey first, but very soon he would have Delilah back in his seraglio. Abdul was resting transiently in Nice and gambling at Monte Carlo before continuing north to Paris as an envoy for his uncle to the French foreign minister. He would cut short his gaming now and leave directly tomorrow morning for Paris. Three days at the outside to deliver his
dis
patches, and then he and his new luscious traveling companion could leisurely journey back to Kurdistan.

His searching gaze had ascertained that Delilah was pregnant, quite
enceinte,
in fact, and looked soon to deliver. Within the year, though, he vowed with a libertine glint of carnal desire in his velvet eyes, she would give him a child, too. The thought of possessing her, owning her, planting his seed in her, stiffened his powerful manhood. What a beautiful creature he would have to delight and tantalize him. He had never quite resigned himself to her loss in the bidding with Prince Alexander Kuzan. To relinquish a female he desired to a barbaric Russian had always rankled.

Abdul paced restlessly as the afternoon sun cast lengthening rays into his sitting room, his stomach tightening in anticipation. He was scarcely able to contain his pent-up energy as he contemplated having the fair Delilah. As soon as it was absolutely dark, Abdul and his three guards left the hotel. All four men were dressed in black robes, and as they moved swiftly through the streets toward Zena's pension, their presence was muted, blending silently with the murky shadows of the moonless night.

Upon reaching the pension on the hill, Ali was directed toward the back door of the building. Kufir was posted outside the main entrance, while Softi and Abdul proceeded very quietly up the stairway to Zena's second-floor apartment. "Stay outside in the hallway," Abdul whispered to Softi. "When I need you I'll call. Now the door."

Softi extracted a slender, rigid wire from the folds of his burnoose and cautiously inserted it into the lock. With infinite care and a methodical patience his thin, precise fingers twisted the wire gently until he felt the sliding movement of the latch release. Turning the knob noiselessly, he raised his head and smiled at his master. Abdul slipped inside the door into the dim foyer, gesturing Softi to close the door behind him.

Stealthily, his thin-soled morocco leather slippers silent on the polished wood, Abdul crossed the small inlaid floor and looked down the darkened hallway. Only one room had light shining beneath the door. Abdul's breathing quickened as Delilah lay within his grasp.

Moving down the narrow hall, he stood outside the door for a second. Abdul threw open the door, scanned the lighted area with a roving glance, and swept across the short space of carpet to clamp a rough hand over Zena's mouth as she sat in bed, wide-eyed and panic-stricken, too petrified with terror to scream.

Working swiftly, Abdul tied his silk handkerchief around Zena's head as a gag. This accomplished to his satisfaction, he took a silk cord from around his waist, twisted Zena's arms behind her back with effortless ease, and secured them tightly. Zena's terrified eyes recoiled at his cruel actions while some obscure memory stirred at the sight of him. The black-haired man looked vaguely familiar. Had she met him somewhere? Where had she seen him? At the slave traders? Her indefinite recognition was elusive. It must have been at the desert camp. Those were the only Turks she had seen. The brigands who had abducted her were clean-shaven. An unpleasant memory slowly surfaced. Now she remembered the encounter. When she had been sold by the brigands, Ibrahim Bey's nephew was at his side. This was the nephew! She quailed in revulsion at the memory, at the connotations of this assault, at the unholy scrutiny from those jet eyes.

Abdul was standing beside the bed, a tremendous, powerful man, staring unreservedly at his captured prize. His beautiful, noble features fell into fascinated contemplation. Previously his plans were to carry Delilah and the boy immediately by private carriage to Paris. But as he stood surveying the thinly clad woman, her auburn tresses tumbling around her white shoulders, the abundant breasts, full and swollen with pregnancy, he beheld a fascinating sensual feast. The object of his sexual hunger, the sweet morsel he had almost possessed months ago, was only an arm's reach away. She was tied and trussed, warm, and nearly naked—a voluptuous earth mother, splendidly fertile, like a lush sacrifice, a sensuous allegorical vessel just waiting to serve his worshipping phallus. What a temptation to push the fragile gown from her shoulders and expose those breasts straining against the fabric. Her large nipples were thrusting in twin high peaks, stretching the diaphanous silk into symmetrical areolas of bursting ripples. What a temptation to take her immediately.

He decided quite abruptly, his penis rising at the sight, perhaps he could spare a half hour to taste and know the lush, warm feel of this exquisite goddess before the journey to Paris began. Reaching out a lean, brown hand, he mutely slipped Zena's sleeping gown down over her shoulders, taking both hands to ease the fine silk and lace when it tightened, then caught across the jutting pressure of the extravagant, satiny bosom. He used both hands to inch the fabric slowly down over the ripe, taut, distended breasts. The thin material sprang free and the full, magnificent globes were displayed in all their lush splendor. He ran his hands admiringly over the marvelous roundness like an appreciative connoisseur. Zena cringed back against the headboard at his touch.

"Delectable, Delilah. A feast for the gods," Abdul murmured. Her breasts were more beautiful than any he had ever seen, placed high and absolutely round. They seemed to point hungrily, provocatively near his mouth, thrusting upward for his kiss. He could see those delicious, luxurious breasts could very easily become an obsession. His erection expanded.

Why was he calling her Delilah? Why was this terrible, dark, savage man calling her Delilah? Zena couldn't understand the reason, and he gave no explanation. The hashish and drugs administered to her at Ibrahim Bey's command had quite effectively obliterated any recollections of her stay in his camp. Zena had no memory of the night of the feast in Ibrahim's tent.

Abdul unhooked the gold filigree and moonstone clasp at his neck, and the light wool garment fell open. He slid his arms from the loose, flowing sleeves of the desert coat. With a slow, quiet grace Abdul discarded his outer robe, and clad in a black silk tunic sat down next to Zena on the bed.

"Don't be frightened, Delilah. I won't hurt you," he softly whispered, but the soothing words did little to calm Zena's fears. She was dreadfully afraid and shrank from him.

"Such lovely, enormous breasts, my little mother," Abdul said quietly as his fingers delicately traced a circle around the enlarged nipples.

Female breasts had always held a certain fascination and attraction for him. His Svanetian mother was a concubine in a large harem of an old sultan. Since she was a favorite of the aging ruler, her whims had been indulged, one of which was to follow the universal custom of her tribe to nourish their children for as long as possible with women's milk. The Svanetians felt it was especially strengthening, and it appeared to suit them admirably, as the children flourished extraordinarily. After the third year two and sometimes three nurses were required to satisfy the appetite of the growing child. In Abdul's case, since he was her only child, his mother was allowed to suckle him until he left the harem at age seven. The swarthy Turk was, in truth, a testimonial to the diet, for he was extremely tall and long-limbed with a finely wrought muscular strength.

With gentle fingers Abdul kneaded Zena's breasts in a steady, firm rhythm. Zena sat rigidly upright against the bed, her bound arms pressing into her back, unable to move as the fine-featured, black-bearded Turk stroked and squeezed the rounded, swollen breasts, touching the hardened tips of her nipples occasionally, then resuming his sensuous rhythm.

"I'll find a wet nurse for your child, sweet Delilah," he crooned, as his fingers tightened on her swelling, firm breast, "and your flow of milk will be mine." His tongue licked one large nipple. "I'll have bosa ['mead'] sent down from my mother's tribe in the mountains for you. Drinking it daily ensures a copious supply of milk. I warn you, fair flower, my appetite for your milk will be demanding. I must see that you are rested and healthy so that you will be fit to supply my needs."