Love Storm (6 page)

Zena sat up in panic, her blue eyes now fully alert.

"Allow me to find you a robe," Alex stated, and went to a built-in wardrobe next to the bed and began pawing through it. Tossing aside numerous garments, he emerged with a brilliant magenta silk wrapper. In an apologetic manner, he showed the dressing gown to Zena. "Sorry, the rest are mine—quite unsuitable. This color is garish, but at least it's female in gender."

He wrapped the ruffled and beribboned froth around Zena's shoulders, then quickly slipped into his robe. When she'd tied the sash and run her fingers quickly through her tousled curls, he opened the door and gestured down the narrow hallway. "Second door down. I hope it's nothing too serious," he added, with conventional sympathy.

Bobby was cradled in the maid's lap, his breath coming in labored, rasping gasps.

"Good Lord!" Alex exclaimed in alarm. "He's having trouble breathing. We'll stop the train and find a doctor." He was several yards down the hallway before Zena could stop him.

"Please, my lord, that won't be necessary. Bobby's often like this in the winter; his chest is so susceptible. If we could just have some kind of steamer brought into his room, he'll soon be quite comfortable."

Alex had servants scurrying about in a thrice, and within five minutes a large silver samovar was bubbling furiously in the center of the room, steam drifting from it in wispy trails up to the ceiling. The mist soon saturated the small room. Zena held her young brother in her lap, crooning and soothing the feverish child as the water droplets in the air eased the horrible rasping breath. When the boy at last fell into an untroubled rest, Alex lifted him into his bed and admonished the maid to call them should the wheezing begin again.

When they'd returned to Alex's room, Alex propelled Zena toward the bed and gently tucked her in. She looked quite exhausted. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, he said gravely, "Bobby needs a doctor. We must find one as soon as we reach Moscow."

Zena nodded in agreement, dispiritedly, for she was all too aware that a doctor's services were definitely beyond her means at the present.

The prince, studying one quilted cuff of his robe, obviously choosing his words with care, suggested with formality, "If you would reconsider granting me the pleasure of your company on my holiday, I should be happy to render service to Bobby in any way whatsoever."

Zena dropped her eyes before the bold invitation.

With the ruthless male practicality that selfishly overlooked the subtle nuances of respectability or decorum or sentiment, Alex coaxed softly, "Come now,
ma petite.
Think how Bobby's health would improve. Don't let considerations of virtue intervene, for you can't lose twice that which is already irrevocably lost." His golden eyes caught her and held them. "You can't bring back yesterday, little dove," he said gently, and a mild discomfort gripped him as he saw the confusion in her eyes. Casting aside the momentary pang, he briskly continued, "And, as an alternative to bedding with General Scobloff, surely I'm more . . . er . . . satisfactory." A brief smile touched his mouth.

He encountered a stony silence. Zena had half turned her back on him and was staring at the wall.

"My
dacha
will be secluded and remote," he whispered into the auburn ringlets curling softly against her neck. "I'll make love to you in the sunlight and by firelight,
dushka"
Alex murmured persuasively.

Zena hesitated, unwilling to admit to herself that even on this short acquaintance (but
acquaintance
was hardly the word for such base sensuality! she snorted to herself) she was decidedly inclined to go with the charming prince anywhere, anywhere at all.

"Think of Bobby," Alex repeated as he turned her toward him. "His cough will disappear. He'll have the finest of care, anything money can buy." Knowing how deep was Zena's love for her young brother, how concerned she was for his well-being, he struck where she was most vulnerable. "Just be my guest for a few days until Bobby is better. Look
...
on my honor, I promise not to touch you." (At least, not until you want me to, he thought confidently.) He spread his hands wide in an open gesture of conciliation and smiled winningly.

Zena looked up, startled at his sudden capitulation to integrity, not understanding the smug self-assurance that motivated his promise. "Very well," she said quietly, telling herself she was doing this so Bobby could get well, but knowing deep in her heart there were other, more complex, bewildering, indefensible reasons for her acquiescence.

The prince allowed himself only the smallest smile of triumph. "Excellent decision, my sweet." He bent to caress her cheek. "We reach the Moscow station in forty minutes."

Alex cradled Bobby, who was securely wrapped in a sable robe, while Zena, despite her shabby appearance, in deference to the fact that she was apparently the mother of this child Prince Alexander was personally carrying, was offered the arm of the stationmaster as escort. A veritable phalanx of porters and railway officials, with the consummate efficiency produced only by immense wealth, once again conducted the prince's small party down the length of the train shed. A certain arrogance and pride of bearing, both utterly unconscious and unfeigned, characterized the prince as he strolled unhurriedly toward the street. Two elegant troikas were waiting, cordoned off by a row of black-uniformed security police. All this obsequious homage was casually accepted with perfect equanimity by Alex, who'd had a lifetime of such deferential treatment.

Ivan distributed the prince's generous acknowledgment in the form of hundreds of rubles, and beaming faces and ready hands helpfully assisted the prince, Bobby, and Zena into the cherry-red troika, while servants and baggage were stowed, equally respectfully, into the second, teal-blue, sleigh.

Zena was seated pressed close to the prince in the small velvet-upholstered seat, holding Bobby in her lap. Her baby brother was still drowsy, resting comfortably against her shoulder. All three occupants had been securely covered with numerous fur robes. Despite the unorthodox sit-

uation and the gross irregularities of the previous turbulent night, she couldn't help but feel a cheerful elation. She briefly, ever so briefly, chastised herself for not feeling the requisite remorse and humiliation that society would have prescribed, given the circumstances that had befallen her, but her youthful
joi
de vivre
kept her from responding in this suitably contrite form.

As the prince had pointed out with such blunt practicality, there was no sense in bemoaning the loss of her virtue, for no amount of self-reproach, not the most punctilious future conduct, would ever restore it. And, she
was
far removed from the ugly general, who would have robbed her of that virtue soon enough in any event. If one was obliged to be ruthlessly pragmatic—and for the past three years, ever since her mother's death, Zena had been forced to embrace the unvarnished reality of the adult world—the loss of her virginity was simply a relative issue; it had happened last night instead of next week, that's all, and she was
not
tied for life to a sixty-one-year-old loathsome toad. She and Bobby would soon be with her grandfather and he would take care of them. With the exception of one minor drawback—if one could consider lost virtue minor, she thought wryly—everything had worked out quite well.

The three matched horses were restless in anticipation, held in check by a young street boy. Prince Alexander, leaning forward and speaking rapidly in a subdued voice, was imparting some last-minute instructions to Ivan. This was the first time Zena had seen him in the light of day and she regarded him with admiration, noting the finely chiseled profile against the thin, gray, wintry light, the crinkling round his eyes as he chuckled softly over some rejoinder from Ivan. When he suddenly leaned back in the seat and smiled lazily at her, she was a little disconcerted to be caught staring and looked away, quickly focusing her eyes on the beautiful horses, which were tossing their heads with impatience.

"The horses are absolutely exquisite," she exclaimed appreciatively, feeling a need to make conversation with this virtual stranger.

"Yes," the prince answered absently as he relayed one last order to the sleigh behind, then turned back to face Zena. At sight of that fair cameo face framed by a soft cascade of auburn curls, those wide, bewitching blue eyes, that captivating soft pink mouth, his breath caught and he repeated quietly, apropos female rather than horse flesh, "Exquisite. Very exquisite indeed."

Zena blushed crimson at the intensity of his gaze and lowered her eyes.

Alex reached out to caress her cheek, but arrested his gesture in midair when she shrank from him in alarm. Throwing his head back, he laughed boyishly. "Forgive me,
dushka.
I did promise not to touch you, didn't I? A momentary lapse. Please don't cringe; it's extremely lowering to my reputation as
a
bon vivant.
Come, we can be friends. I'm really quite harmless." He turned his most prepossessing smile upon her, profoundly confident of the devastating effectiveness of the Kuzan charm.

Zena found herself impetuously returning the smile, as she was meant to do, no more immune to the irresistible Kuzan magnetism than scores of females before her.

The prince winked conspiratorially, "Capital! Friends, then?" When Zena nodded, his grin widened appreciably— an unguarded, natural grin far more effective and dangerous than the most seductive smile. "Ivan, we're off!" he called, and in an instant the horses were sprung and the troika was flying through the bustling streets of midday Moscow.

Zena, allowing herself the blissful extravagance of having someone take care of her, sank deeper into the luxurious warmth of the fur robes. She and the prince were veritable strangers, she knew, despite the incredible events of the previous night; yet she had an uncommon feeling of closeness to him. (The intimacy of bedfellows did expedite the usual protracted maturation of an acquaintanceship, she mused drolly.) She knew she had no right to be so happy, considering the "unacceptable" situation she found herself in, but she was. Flashing a sidelong glance at Alex out of dancing eyes, she said gaily, "Isn't the morning just marvelous?"

Having drunk a prodigious quantity of liquor over the past twenty-four hours, Alex could not view the morning with quite the same degree of exuberance as the
mademoiselle;
but, discrediting the slight headache that pounded in his temple, he did have to essentially agree. "Perfectly marvelous, my pet." (When I have talked you into my bed once again, perfection indeed, he thought smugly.) Not wishing to alter this childishly bright mood the young chit was in, but deeming it as good a time as any, Alex entreated her politely to please tell him her name once again.

Zena's eyes opened wide in surprise, she being still
naïve
and romantic enough to presume that one should at least remember the name of the individual with whom one has just shared such extraordinary intimacies.

Alex immediately dissembled, presenting the most outrageously woeful countenance. "Now, Bobby's name I know," he said, having heard it spoken several times that morning, "but I fear I was greatly in my cups last evening when you introduced yourself and hesitate to admit I've forgotten what you said. You see, I'm quite neglectfully poor with names. I've a memory like a sieve. Forgive me."

"Oh! Of
...
of course, lord. My name's Zena—Zena Turku."

" 'Zena'? Lovely and rare—extremely appropriate." Alex turned his eyes too quickly as he glanced toward his companion, and winced in pain. Damnable head was getting worse. He leaned back against the velvet squabs, shutting his eyes against the too-brilliant rays of the harsh winter sun. Sweet Jesus, he was tired. The peaceful country
dacha
would be welcoming indeed.

"The headache, my lord?" Zena questioned, having the past three years seen her father similarly distressed mornings without number. "Lemonade with honey used to work prodigious well for my father," she offered solicitously.

Alex mumbled something unintelligible in reply, speculating that lemonade may have relieved her father, but
his
cure tended .toward a somewhat more potent remedy with alcohol as the base. Damn chit was amazing, though, he considered indulgently: no hysteria, no simpering. He was somewhat surprised. How many young
mademoiselles
would be so amiable to the rogue who had seduced them the night before? She was remarkable to have adjusted so complacently. Then an uneasy feeling stole into his brain. Was she three steps ahead of him, having planned this encounter? She
had
appeared at an extremely unlikely place at a damnably convenient time. He raised one eyelid fractionally and shot a suspicious peek at the fetching young thing next to him. Her charmingly
naïve
appearance immediately cast aside these misgivings. She
had
been a virgin, after all—at least that much he remembered quite vividly in the somewhat hazy recollections of last night. And good God, at the very worst what could she demand? Money? They
all
cost money. She couldn't be any more expensive than the rest. All in all, the next few weeks should be most entertaining. A young virgin to tutor in the intricacies of love was quite a change of pace from the usual style of female sharing his leisure.

Since the mumbled reply from the prince did not seem to encourage conversation, Zena lapsed into silence as the horses flew over the snow-covered road winding through quiet birch forests. Her thoughts were equally of her companion, but somewhat more confused and disarrayed then the practical considerations of the prince, who disregarded the finer delicacies of emotion and sentiment in favor of the tangible considerations of how best to have this young woman serve his purposes.