Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (81 page)

The anger seeped instantly out of her, replaced by a wave
of dizzying excitement.

Skolnik smiled as he approached the mirror and flicked his
wrist like a magician, flinging aside the sheet.

Tamara's excitement edged into panic. What would she see?

Trembling, she forced herself to walk slowly toward it, and
then her body slid into her line of vision and was reflected
threefold. She let out a gasp. Skolnik stepped behind her, his
face half-hidden by her own, his one visible eye gleaming with
Svengali satisfaction over her right shoulder.

She shook her head in disbelief, frowned, shook it again.
The noble, high-cheekboned face staring back at her had a
Slavic, almost otherworldly beauty. Lustrous platinum curls
gleamed with an angel-hair whiteness. The figure was svelte,
as perfect in its proportions as a finely chiselled Greek marble.
The nose was thin, patrician, perfect. Indeed, everything
about her was perfect. The arched brows, nothing short of
magnificent. The teeth, luminous. Skin the translucent clarity
of a very fine, very pale dessert wine. The eyes, perfectly
balanced now, and heavily lidded and shadowed and outlined,
enchanted and beguiled even herself.

'Do you recognize her?' Skolnik asked softly into her ear.

'I . . . I don't know,' Tamara stammered, softly touching
her new face with featherlike fingertips. 'This . . . this isn't
the old Tamara Boralevi.'

His voice was even. 'No, it isn't,' he replied. 'Tamara
Boralevi is no more. Even that name ceases to exist. From
now on, you will be known only as Tamara. No last name.
Just Tamara. Throughout the world, everyone will be on a
first-name basis with you.'

'I
...
I just can't believe this is me!' She turned to face him,
her moist lips parted, her teeth gleaming iridescently.

He shook his head and smiled slightly. 'It isn't you. The
Tamara you used to be has ceased to exist. The woman you
see before you is flesh and blood, but she was born of no
woman. I have had the opportunity to do that which many
men have dreamt of doing, but none has ever achieved. I have
played God. I have had you created. I have created an ideal.
I have created perfection.'

She nodded silently, gooseflesh breaking out on her arms.
'Yes, yes, you have, Mr. Skolnik,' she said huskily, turning
back to the mirror;

'O.T.,' he reminded her. 'You're supposed to call me O.T.'
His face slid out of view.

'I'm . . . I'm . . .
beautiful!'
she cried. 'I'm truly, truly
beautiful!' The tears flooded forth unchecked now, blurring
her vision, running in mascara rivulets down flawless cheeks.

It was Louis Ziolko who stepped forward, reached for his
handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes dry. ' "Beautiful" does
not begin to describe you,' he said softly. 'I think you are now
the most beautiful woman in the world.'

She swallowed visibly and didn't know how to reply.

'Oh, by the way,' Skolnik said almost negligently, 'you'd
better take care of that face. I've got a big investment in it,
you know. It's being insured with Lloyd's of London for one
million dollars.'

After he and Max left, she and Louis stared at the door for
a long, long time.

Night had long since fallen. A brisk alpine wind rattled the
windowpanes, relentlessly seeking cracks and crannies
through which to invade the room. Under the feather-light
eiderdown duvet, Tamara listened to the high-pitched keening
of the wind. Somewhere out in the hall a clock chimed twelve
times.

She sighed and stared blearily up at the dark ceiling. Mid
night already, and still she lay awake. She had tried to go
to sleep hours ago, but sleep had eluded her. So much had
happened, and so quickly. Since coming here, she had become
a woman who previously had not existed.

So many fears wrestled with her mind. Now that she looked
different, would she have to act different? More important, would people treat her differently? And if so, how was she to respond? There was no time to get used to the new Tamara, to grow comfortably into the character. She had been born
virtually overnight.

Almost angrily she pounded her pillow with her hand,
turned it around to the cool side, and shut her eyes again,
determined to sleep and exorcise her demons, but she only
tossed and turned sleeplessly. The clock in the hall chimed the
half-hour. Twelve-thirty.

Resigned, she finally swung herself up into a sitting position
and reached for her robe while her toes felt the chill floor for her slippers. Rising, she shrugged herself into the robe and
walked to the door. For a long moment she stood there hesi
tantly, one hand poised on the brass handle. Then, before she
could change her mind, she swiftly pulled it open. She glanced
up and down the long, pine-panelled hall. It was dark, with
only night-lights at the far ends to help illuminate the way.
The chalet was quiet, creaking now and then as old buildings
will. Ghostly shadows seemed to lurk everywhere, waiting to
pounce. Across the hall, she noticed a sliver of bright light
shining beneath Louis Ziolko's door. It seemed to beckon her.
Throughout her entire nightmarish medical ordeal there had
been but a single constant, a solitary anchor. Louis Ziolko.

She took three quick steps forward, held her breath, and
rapped softly on his door.

Inside, she could hear a mattress squeaking. Bedcovers rus
tling. Bare footsteps slapping against the polished wooden
floor.

Louis opened the door. He was wearing maroon silk
pyjamas.

She smiled hesitantly, clutching her robe together in the
front. 'I couldn't sleep,' she said apologetically.

'Neither could I.' He opened the door further. 'Would you
like to come in?'

She slipped inside and he closed the door behind her.
'You're shivering,' he said. He stared at her intently. 'Are you
cold?'

She shook her head. Her emerald-green eyes became two
limpid pools. 'I'm frightened.'

He looked surprised. 'Of what?'

'Me.' She laughed humourlessly. 'The new me.'

'Millions of women would like to be in your shoes.'

'I know.' She looked away. 'Hold me?' she whispered.

Then she could feel his strong arms wrapping around her.
Slowly she turned to him, staring deep into his eyes.

'I know I'm being silly,' she said huskily, 'but I need
someone.'

His voice was hushed. 'There comes a time when we all
need someone.'

She did not reply, but her eyes were tear-bright as his arms
engulfed her and drew her toward him.

Time ceased to tick; the world had slipped into a silent
dimension in which they were the only two people on earth.
Even the chimes in the hall belonged to another time.

She clung trembling against him; he lowered his mouth to
hers and his lips touched her lips, his tongue sought hers.
Their gentle embrace grew more heated, their kisses more
impassioned and deep. His fingers felt her tight body, groped along the raised ridge of her spine, and then moved slowly to
the front of her robe. Then his hands slid inside, found her silky flesh, the perfect soft round breasts, then felt slowly,
inexorably downward to her smooth hard belly. She moaned
and tightened her grip on him as his fingers curved over the
soft forest of hair on her mound. A tremor rippled through
her body. Barely touching her, his hands feather light, he felt
for the distended clitoris with its tonguelike protrusion and, without warning, slipped two fingers inside her moistness.

Her body arched then and she gave a deep-throated cry.
This was it. The promise and the passion. The other side of
dying. The reason for having been born. As though possessed,
her own hands fumbled inside his silk pyjamas, and then she
had her hands around his manhood. Power seemed to surge through it, and she could feel it pulsate. She could not believe
how huge and hard it felt. She was at once frightened of it and
desperate for it.

'I want you,' she whispered hoarsely. 'Louie, I want you. I
need you.' She began kissing him urgently, little moans escap
ing from her lips. 'Please, I need it. Oh, God, how I need it.'

He moved away from her, slid the robe from her shoulders,
and watched it glide down the smoothness of her body. His
breath caught in his throat. It was as though a curtain had slid
away, exposing a priceless treasure. He had had no idea that
her body was such perfection. The orbs of her breasts were
tipped with strawberry areolae and jutting nipples, her waist
was tiny, her hard abdomen rose and fell with each breath,
and her hips had more curvature to them than he had thought
possible when he saw her dressed. Between her muscular thighs he could see a glistening, almost oily sheen.

Wanton lust burned in his eyes. She had the face of an angel
and the body of a whore. And she was his. His for the taking.
His for loving.

Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped out of his
pyjamas and then stood straight and tall before her. She stared
at him. Now it was her turn to catch her breath. He looked like a Greek god, more like the conception of a man than a
real flesh-and-blood one. His shoulders were thickly muscled, his arms and chest powerful, his abdomen rippled. He was so
lean. So tight. So muscular. Swirls of curly hair matted his
chest and legs, softening the carved alabaster hardness of his
chiselled physique. Slowly her eyes fell. And held. She was
transfixed, and stared with breathless wonder. His engorged
penis jutted out from the base of his abdomen, curving high,
its purplish circumcised head appearing to be precariously bal
anced. A drop of clear nectar oozed from within and glistened
like a dewdrop. Below, like ripe heavy fruits, hung succulent
testicles.