Passion's Mistral (14 page)

there with his shoulders as he fumbled with the zipper of his slacks.

Thrusting into her sleek womanliness with a brutal force that pushed her higher in the bed, he slammed

into her viciously.

“You are hurting me!” she cried out, pulling against her bonds.

“You haven’t seen hurt yet, bitch,” he warned.

He splayed her legs apart and grabbed her breasts, savagely squeezing the dusky mounds. His fingernails

plucked at her nipples, gouging into them, twisting the tender flesh until she screamed with the pain.

“That’s it,” he crooned in an evil voice. “Let me hear you scream again.”

He bent forward and took one engorged nipple between his teeth, biting hard enough to draw blood. The

sound that came from Celeste’s throat made him laugh as he sucked hard on the wounded protrusion.

“Julian, please!” Celeste whimpered. “Be gentle with me!”

Sheer fury filled Pierce’s very soul at the mention of his hated enemy. He slid his mouth farther up her

breast and bit into the quivering flesh, leaving deep teeth prints in the full globe. Celeste’s shriek of agony

was like music to his ears and he slammed into her with renewed force.

“Pierce,” he snarled. “My name is Pierce!”

Celeste wobbled her head back and forth on the rumpled coverlet. Her fantasy lover was not the former

college football player who arched over her. The lover of her dreams, the man of her heart, was a

thousand miles away, lying in the hated arms of another woman.

“Julian,” she cried, tears falling down her cheeks, ruining her expertly applied makeup.

“Pierce!” her tormentor spat and dragged his nails down the tender insides of her thighs, pushing them so

far apart she feared he would break her pelvis.

As he rode her, plowing into her vaginal chamber as though he was trying to thrust his penis into her

throat, he sunk his teeth into the already-scarred flesh of her shoulder until he tasted the sweet saltiness of

her blood.

“Julian,” Celeste whispered as she felt her climax itching at the inner lining of her cunt.

They came together—he, jamming his hard cock as brutally as he could, she, straining upward to catch

the very last spurt of his essence and the last cruel thrust of pain. As her satiation culminated, she shouted

Julian’s name.

“You bitch,” he swore, hating her at the same time he gently untied her hands from the headboard. “My

name is Pierce.”

Celeste gathered him to her, cradling his sweaty body to hers. She smoothed her palms over the muscles

of his back.

“I know who you are,” she said softly.

“I love you,” he told her.

“Yes, I know,” she crooned, rocking him in her arms.

“More than he ever will.”

Celeste shrugged. “I fear that is true.”

Pierce craned his neck to look up into her beautiful face. “Then why do you deny me?”

“Because,” she said, lowering her head to plant a gentle kiss on his damp brow, “you aren’t Julian and it

is Julian I want.”

Hurt drove deep in Pierce’s heart and he slumped against her, burying his face in her shoulder. No matter

what he did, it was never enough. No matter how much he hurt her, shamed her, did her bidding, he

always came up short in her eyes.

“I hate him,” Pierce said.

“Good,” Celeste said with a smile. “You should.”

Long after Celeste was asleep, Pierce lay awake, plotting vicious brutalities, creating savage fantasies of

his own.

And none of them involved the luscious woman lying beside him.

Clive Bellington shot the cuffs of his very expensive suit then adjusted his cravat. He turned sideways to

admire himself in the full-length mirror and—satisfied with his appearance—turned away.

“But how long will you be gone, dear?” Edwina Bellington stood just inside her lover’s bedroom door,

twisting a handkerchief between her arthritic fingers.

“I have no idea,” Clive replied, allowing his manservant to assist him with putting on a cashmere

overcoat. “You know how those Americans can be.”

Edwina lifted the handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “I will miss you.” She smiled hesitantly. “It wouldn’t

take me long to throw a bag together.”

Clive rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over this ad nauseum, Winnie. You would only be bored. When I

return, we’ll have a holiday in Capri. How does that sound?”

Sighing, Edwina tucked the handkerchief into the pocket of her silk dressing gown. It was obvious to her

Clive did not want her along on this trip.

Not that he ever took her on his trips to America.

“It’s been so long since I was in the Colonies,” she said in a wistful tone. “I rather liked Chicago.”

“Well, it isn’t like it was thirty odd years ago,” Clive replied. “Not like it was when you and Albert were

there.”

At the mention of her late husband—Clive’s older brother—Edwina hung her head. Her one short year in

Chicago with the man she had been forced to marry had not been as pleasant as she had led everyone to

believe. Had she been with Clive, the man she had wanted and still loved more than anything else in her

life, her stay in America would have been sheer bliss. She would not have wanted to return to England

though she knew Clive’s heart was rooted firmly in the foggy country.

“Perhaps you will take me with you when you go next time?” she asked hopefully.

“Perhaps,” Clive mumbled, eying his manservant who would be accompanying him on the trip. He

walked to his mistress and graced her with a quick peck of a kiss. “Be good now,” he ordered.

From her lover’s bedroom window, three stories up from the sweeping turnaround in front of the

Bellington mansion, Edwina watched Clive being ushered into the town car that would take him to a

private airport outside London. She traced a random pattern on the window glass as she leaned her head

against the pane. Her heart lurched as the town car pulled away.

When Albert had been found slumped over his desk that cold February morning twenty-five years

earlier, Edwina had expected Clive to ask her to marry him after a decent interval of mourning Albert’s

loss had passed. But no matter how she hinted that such a thing was her fondest wish, Clive seemed not

to notice. He was content to live with her in his own set of elegant apartments in the mansion and come to

her bed in the dark of night, never showing his affection in public. Only their servants—as discreet as any

Englishman or woman had ever been—knew the true nature of their relationship.

The town car disappeared beyond the tall yews at the end of the estate’s serpentine driveway and

Edwina walked to Clive’s bed. She pulled the silk coverlet aside and stretched out upon the crisp linen

sheets. She stroked Clive’s pillow, pressing her cheek into the smell of him, inhaling his essence.

“Did you let Morris know I would like the prime rib for dinner tomorrow evening?” Clive asked Hansen,

his manservant.

“Yes, milord,” Hansen replied. “And he has laid in a stock of your favorite ale.”

“Excellent,” Clive said. “It will be nice to be away from the estate for a few days.”

Hansen smiled.

“I detest having to meet with that Umsted chap,” Clive complained. “He is such a boor.”

Hansen nodded. No reply was expected of him.

“He did say he would take me to Julian this time,” Clive commented. “That will make this trip less

taxing.”

Hansen’s face took on a look of respectful interest though the hands beneath the overcoat draped over

his lap clenched into fists.

“We will find a way to bring Julian to justice,” Clive said. “All we need do is get him off that despicable

island of his.” He turned to look out his window. “Once he is behind bars and sitting on death row, I can

breathe easier.”

Hansen shifted uncomfortably on the seat, bringing Clive’s attention to him.

“The piles bothering you again, old man?” Clive asked with a smirk.

Hansen ducked his head. “I am afraid so, milord.”

Clive picked up his umbrella and poked the driver in the back. “Find a loo for us, Richards.”

Hansen shifted again, pulling a face that suggested he was in major discomfort.

A few meters down the road, Richards turned into a petrol station and parked. He got out to open the

door for Hansen, a servant higher up the ranks than himself.

Hansen smiled apologetically, thanked his employer and exited the car, walking as stiff cheeked as he

could into the station.

The attendant glanced up then went back to reading the London Times as the richly dressed man headed

for the telephone kiosk.

A call was placed to a number in Birmingham. A single word was spoken to the woman who answered

at the other end. Before the town car wound its way to the private airport from which Clive and Hansen

would be winging to America, word had been passed onto a number on Mistral Cay.

“Boogeyman,” Henri wrote on his ever-present notebook.

“Tell me what happened,” Silkie asked.

Julian sighed heavily. “Why do you want to know?”

“I want to know everything about you,” she said.

He shifted so they were lying with her in his arms, his front to her backside, snug as spoons in a kitchen

drawer.

“It’s not something I talk about,” he told her.

“Why did that man try to kill you?” she asked to encourage him.

Julian was silent for a long time, his breathing audible in her ear. She knew he was awake, forming the

words in his mind before he shared them with her. She waited, not pressing, her hands lightly clutching his

arms, one thumb rubbing the wiry hair on his wrist.

“I left home when I was twelve,” he said. “It was after the Christmas holiday and I was on my way back

to the boarding school where my father had gone when he was a boy. I had tampered with the stem on

the tire, figuring about how long it would take the sedan to get to a stretch of road far enough away from

any nearby houses.” He chuckled. “I’ve always been good at math.”

“I haven’t,” Silkie laughed in reply.

“While the chauffer was changing the tire, I got out and told him I had to take a leak.”

“And never came back.”

“And never came back,” Julian echoed.

“Where on earth does a twelve-year-old boy go when he’s running away?”

“To the docks,” Julian answered. “And a ship onto which I could stowaway.”

“That was a very dangerous thing to do.”

“More dangerous than I realized,” Julian agreed. “I hid inside a crate, thinking I would be able to sneak

out at night and find something to eat.” He snorted. “I wasn’t counting on that crate being shoved up

against several others with no way for me to get out.”

Silkie gasped. “Oh, my God! You could have starved to death!” Her eyes widened. “Or suffocated!”

“I realized that a bit too late,” he said.

“Just thinking about it scares me,” she said, tears gathering.

“I have nightmares about it,” he told her. “Henri has told me I wake up clawing at the air.” He shrugged.

“I guess I’m trying to claw my way out of the crate. I don’t know.”

“You traveled all the way to America like that?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “If it hadn’t have been for Henri, I probably wouldn’t be here today.”

“He found you,” she stated.

“He smelled me,” Julian corrected.

He went on to tell her how Henri had been snooping around the docks, looking for something to steal,

and had caught a whiff of the smell of excrement coming from a crate containing boxes of

prams—English baby carriages. Of how Henri had used a forklift to move aside the crate jammed in

front of the one in which Julian hid and how he had pried open the crate only to catch an unconscious,

starving boy in his arms.

“He thought an animal had somehow gotten into the crate. Henri is a very staunch animal activist and he

didn’t stop to think what he was doing when he illegally opened that crate. It never occurred to him he’d

find a human in there,” Julian said. He sighed. “A half-starved boy at that.”

“What did he do?” she asked. “Did he turn you in?”

“No, that wouldn’t have occurred to Henri, either,” Julian replied.

“He took you in,” she said.

“He took me to Celeste. He was working for her at the time.”

Silkie bristled at the name. “Did she pay him to provide boys for her brothel?” she grumbled.

“Henri had numerous ways of making money back then, sweetness. He is a pickpocket of the first order

as well as one hell of a cat burglar, a master forger and the best card shark I’ve ever seen. He is also one

helluva enforcer when he needs to be.”

“Did Celeste Dubois pay him to provide males for her brothels?” Silkie repeated.

Julian tightened his hold around her. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Silkie fumed. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t like that man.”

“He didn’t procure them for her, sweetness,” Julian said. “He introduced them to her. What they did after

that was their affair.”

“Yeah, well, did she pay him for those introductions?”

When Julian didn’t answer right away, she craned her neck and looked up at him. The glow of the

tinkling lights in the branches overhead shone in his eyes.

“Well? Did she?”

Julian let out a long breath. “Yes, she did.”

“Then he procured for her,” she said.

Not wanting to argue with her, he nuzzled her neck. “She’s not as bad as you think she is, Silkie.”

“So he took you to her,” she said, ignoring his assessment of the woman. “And she nursed you back to

health.” Her words were said in a mocking tone.

“You were asking about the man I killed,” he reminded her. “Not my introduction to Celeste.”