Anew: Book One: Awakened (21 page)

My shoulders straighten. Meeting
his gaze, I say, “I think we both know the answer to that.”

An hour later, I spin in
Sergei’s arms as he guides me through an intricate series of steps that tax my
ability yet also exhilarate me. Coming out of the final pirouette, I can’t help
smiling. Imagining Ian watching me has proven to be truly inspirational. I feel
energized and focused in a way I definitely didn’t when I crawled out of bed
this morning.

“Bravo,” Sergei says softly. He
releases me and takes a few steps back. His expression turns solemn. “Whoever
this man is,” he says, “I hope he appreciates his good fortune. Because if he
does not--”

To my relief, he leaves the rest
unspoken. More than any of the men I have been introduced to at social events,
I can respond to Sergei in a way at once disquieting and reassuring.
Objectively, I suspect that we would be good together. Emotionally, I have no
desire whatsoever to find out if I am right.

On the contrary, all I can
really think of is Ian throughout the remainder of the day and well into the
night. Lying in my bed, the scent of the clitoria once again heavy in the air,
I imagine him as I slip my hand down between my thighs. Ian touching me… Ian’s
breath against my throat… Ian’s mouth on mine… slipping down my body… finding
the core of my heat and need--

His presence is overpowering in
my mind but the orgasm that ripples through me is once again a pale reflection
of what I know I can experience. If anything, it leaves me even more
unsatisfied.

Sighing, I turn over in the bed and confront the truth. My
body misses Ian desperately. But so does my heart.

Amelia

T
hree
days pass. Between ballet classes and the endless round of social events, I
scarcely have time to think. Although I manage to stay much better focused
under Sergei’s tutelage, being with him only serves to keep me constantly aware
of my feelings for Ian. Yet the hours spent in the dance studio are a rare
respite from all the other times when I have to confront the man himself in the
formidable flesh.

Contrary to his reputation for
being socially aloof, Ian is everywhere. Every event I attend--with the season
now in high swing there are so many--our paths cross. He is unfailingly
courteous, never attempting to get me alone again. We exchange polite chitchat,
nothing more. Yet surely I'm not mistaken about the heat in his eyes when our
gazes meet?

Inevitably, the presence at such
events of such an eligible and previously elusive man invites speculation. He
is, I hear it whispered, interested in someone in particular but no one can
agree on who she is. A young debutante, newly graduated from one of the elite
universities, is a prime candidate. So is a recently divorced thirty-something
with spectacular looks and a rumored predilection for bondage play.

The graphic nature of some of
the gossip surprises me But I realize that it shouldn’t. These are the people
who find nude opera singers having at the very least simulated sex on stage to
be high cultural entertainment.

The longer I am in the city, the
more aware I become of the heavy layer of sensuality that permeates every
aspect of it. Some of that is undeniably appealing--the beauty of the
architecture, the ubiquity of music, art, and all the rest, even the exquisite
preparation of food paired with the finest wines. But other aspects hint at the
indulgence of darker appetites.

Recreational drugs, legal since
the collapse of the war on drugs decades ago, are prevalent. I think back to
the charity gala that I attended two nights before with Edward and Adele. The
head of the charity’s board of directors received a humanitarian award for his
work combating drug use among minors. The irony is that the brilliant and
darkly handsome Jorge Cruces owns the world’s largest recreational drug
company. His efforts to keep his products out of the hands of those too young
to use them legally merely assure that he will be left free to sell them to
everyone else.

Such indulgences are far from
Society’s only vice. I hear casual references to clubs where the most beautiful
and skilled sex workers--men and women alike--serve every taste. Almost nothing
is off-limits or even particularly difficult to obtain.

At a garden party, I stumble
across a couple having sex under the branches of a weeping willow. The woman is
on her knees, sucking the man off. His hands are tangled in her hair, holding
her head in place. As she looks up at him, he gazes down at her with such raw
passion that I suddenly cannot breathe.

Walking away hastily, wanting
nothing so much as to be alone, I run smack into Charles Davos. He catches my
arm just in time to stop me from falling. He looks perfectly pleasant, even
handsome. Well dressed in pleated wool trousers and a cashmere jacket, he is
very fit for his age with the unmistakable patina of wealth and privilege. Yet
something about his touch makes my skin crawl.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I say.
“Please excuse me.” I start to go around him but Davos’ hand on my arm stops
me.

“Amelia, isn’t it? Amelia
McClellan. I’m Charles Davos. We met at the opera. Is something wrong? You look
upset.”

From another person, I might
take that as an expression of polite concern. But Davos’ yellow-green eyes,
seen at such close range, have an almost reptilian cast. He blinks slowly and a
shiver runs through me. I really do not like this man even if I can’t begin to
say why.

“Not at all. I was just
distracted. Please excuse me.”

Davos doesn’t release me.
Instead, he says, “You’re a welcome addition to our social set, Amelia. Seeing
the same faces over and over can get wearisome.”

His skin emits a musky, oily
scent that makes me recoil. “If you say so. I really must be going--”

He chuckles. “So impetuous. I
like that.” He leans a little closer. “A pity about Susannah. She was a lovely
woman. I quite admired her.”

I can’t help myself. “You knew
Susannah?”

“Why, yes, of course. Everyone
knows everyone here, or at least everyone who matters. But in Susannah’s case,
I have to admit that I had a particular interest. She was so…refined, so cool,
so contained. Very refreshing in a world that I’m sure you’ve already
discovered can be quite hedonistic.”

“I’m sorry not to have known her,”
I say. Again, I try to extricate myself from his hold. This time he lets me go
but he still blocks my path.

“No doubt you are. You remind me
of her. Your eyes, most particularly. People say they are windows into the
soul. Do you believe that, Amelia?”

I’m too busy staring at Davos to
answer. He is the first person to mention my resemblance to Susannah. That’s
disturbing enough but his remark about seeing into the soul… What does that
mean? Is he hinting that he suspects the secret I’m hiding?

A chill slips down my spine. I
can’t get away from him fast enough but at the same time I don’t want to do
anything to arouse his curiosity further. Fortunately, I’m saved from trying to
figure out what to do by Edward’s sudden appearance.

He takes one look at me standing
with Davos and comes to my side, putting his arm around me in a display of
affection I know is not commonplace for him.

“Charles,” he says in a hard
voice that mocks his seeming courteousness. “You’ll have to forgive us. There’s
someone I want Amelia to meet.”

Without waiting for a response,
my brother leads me away. When we’ve gone a short distance, he sets me on a
bench and sits down beside me. Holding my hands, he says, “You’re shaking. What
did Davos do?”

Quickly, I say, “Nothing. He
just said that I remind him of Susannah.”

Edward frowns. “That doesn’t
make any sense. He scarcely knew her.”

“He claims otherwise. In fact,
he says she interested him because she was so cool and refined.”

I take a breath, grappling with
a thought I would prefer not to have in my head. “He was attracted to her.”

My brother’s disgust couldn’t be
clearer. “He’s old enough to have been her grandfather as well as yours.”

“I don’t think that makes any
difference to him. You don’t like him and neither does Ian. Why?”

“Davos has a certain
reputation,” Edward says. His eyes are grim. “I’m not going into it. Suffice to
say that I’m certain Susannah never spent any time with him. And no matter what
he claims, you are very different from her. There’s nothing for you to be concerned
about.”

I want to believe him but my
doubts linger. Before I can press the matter any further, Ian comes around a
curve of the path quickly, as though seeking someone. At once, he is at my
side. Ignoring Edward, he bends down so that he can look directly into my eyes.

“Amelia, what’s wrong?” His tone
is fierce but gentle in a way that I have heard from him only once before, in
the studio when I was injured. “What happened?” he demands.

His presence, the sound of his
voice, above all the overwhelming sense of safety that suddenly sweeps over me
is too much. My throat tightens as the hard knot of confusion and sadness
present in me since those moments in the library becomes unbearable.

“Amelia?” He touches my face
with exquisite tenderness and catches a tear as it slips down my cheek. “For
God’s sake, baby, tell me what’s wrong!”

“She had a run in with Davos,”
Edward says.

Ian curses under his breath.
“Goddamn it, what did he do to you?”

“He said that I remind him of
Susannah.” I take a quick, shuddering breath and try to get control of myself.
“That’s all. I’m over-reacting.”

But even as I say that, I wonder
if it’s true. Davos turning up when he did, at a moment when I was upset and
distracted, seems too convenient, as though he wanted to catch me with my
defenses down. He has an agenda. I just can’t figure out what it is yet.

 “I’ve told Amelia that she has
nothing to worry about,” my brother says. His voice carries an undertone of
warning, as though he is cautioning Ian not to upset me further.

“You’re right, of course,” Ian
says, too quickly. He rises. A look passes between the two men that I can’t
help but think doesn’t bode well for Davos.

“We should get back to the
party,” Ian says.

I rise as well but before I go
anywhere, I decide to seize the opportunity to bring up a topic that has been
on my mind for several days. My encounter with Davos has only made it more
urgent.

Looking at my brother, I say,
“Adele tells me that you’re knowledgeable about martial arts training. Can you
recommend a beginner’s class?”

Edward looks taken aback.
Clearly stalling while he tries to figure out why I would ask such a thing, he
says, “You’re already taking ballet classes.”

“One hardly precludes the
other," I tell him. "Besides, I think it would be a good idea for me to
learn how to defend myself.”

The two men exchange another
glance. They’re communicating again in some way I can’t grasp. I entertain the
fanciful notion that testosterone can be used to send messages, like flares or
signal flags but perceptible only to other males.

Finally, Ian shrugs. “I’ll teach
you.”

I can’t conceal my shock. This
is definitely not what I want. “You?”

“Why not? I have multiple black
belts and I’ve trained Special Forces soldiers in hand-to-hand combat.”

In desperation, I say, “Surely,
you’re too busy.”

“I’ll make time.”

I turn to Edward for help but
he’s standing a little apart, watching the two of us speculatively.

“I think I’d be better off with
someone more attuned to beginners,” I say.

Ian grins. With a complete lack
of anything resembling decorum, he asks, “Worried about what will happen when I
get you on the mat?”

My cheeks aren’t the only part
of my body that is suddenly hot. Totally forgetting that my brother is present,
I blurt, “That is so typical of you. Reduce everything to sex, then use it to
control me. You’re--”

Softly, with a thread of
warning, he says, “I’m what, Amelia?”

“Predictable.” Because I
apparently have no sense of self-preservation, I add, “Which is dangerously
close to boring.”

Ian’s gaze on me scorches. “In
that case, I’ll have to see what I can do to surprise you.”

The muscles at my core clench. I
turn and march off back toward the party without waiting for either of them. I
don’t know whether I should be more excited or afraid of what Ian will do. But
I do know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I’m longing to find out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The matter of my martial arts
training is still undecided the following day when Adele and I join Helene and
Marianne for lunch. I tried to get out of it but Adele would have none of that.

“I’ve known Helene since she was
a child,” she says in the car on the way to the restaurant where we are to
meet. “She hasn’t had the easiest life but the past has made her the strong,
wonderful woman that she is today.”

It occurs to me that my
grandmother may have some insight into what happened between Ian and his
father. But when I ask her, she says only, “They had a terrible falling out
when Ian was sixteen but beyond that I have no idea. I can only tell you that
Marcus Slade was an unusual man.”

“Unusual how?” I ask.

Adele hesitates. “He was
extremely handsome--Ian gets his looks from him--and undeniably brilliant.
Starting at a very young age, he built a media empire that made him both
immensely wealthy and politically powerful. He seemed to have a knack for
getting people do what he wanted. Helene was younger than he, I think by about
fifteen years. When she was no more than twenty, he came along and swept her
off her feet. It was something of a fairy tale romance--or so it seemed.”

I wonder how that fits with
Ian’s comment about his father driving his sports car off a cliff. Surely,
fairy tales never end that way.

“What went wrong?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” my grandmother
says. “I do know that my husband, God rest his soul, avoided socializing with
Marcus. He wouldn’t tell me why he thought so poorly of him but it was clear
that he did.”

“Were Marcus and Helene still
married when he died?”

“No,” Adele says. “She’d left
him several years before. The terms of their divorce were kept very quiet but
it was generally understood that she came out of it in a greatly reduced state.
That didn’t seem to trouble her any. In fact, after the divorce, she looked
much better than I’d seen her in years. Of course, since Ian took over the
family holdings and completely remade them, Helene and Marianne have wanted for
nothing.”