The Courtesan's Bed (4 page)

She returned to her boudoir and undressed for bed. She turned off the gaslights and stood in the darkness before going to the window. A soft rain was beginning to fall in the silent early morning hours, making the empty street slick and shiny.

Not as empty as she'd thought. A man stood in a doorway across the street, but weariness claimed Régine and she paid him no mind.

She turned and went to her well-earned rest.

Regina's house set back from the street was all dark except for one lighted upstairs window.

Her bedroom.

Darius, who'd been standing across the street for the last hour, lifted his coat collar against the drizzle that had begun to fall. He'd followed the old gent's carriage after he and Regina had left Maxim's, and as he'd hoped, it led him right to her house, a charming little place, surely a gift from some man grateful for services rendered.

He'd watched them disembark and go inside before he got out of the cab and took his post across the street.

He shivered and stifled a deep yawn. What in the hell was he doing standing in a dark doorway at three a.m. on a cold, wet Parisian morning?

He must be mad.

No, obsessed.

When he'd arrived in Paris several days ago, hot on Regina's trail after long fruitless years of searching, he'd gone to a Left Bank café for a celebratory drink and had once again seen the poster plastered in every café in the city, an advertisement for a brand of absinthe, the potent green liquor beloved of bohemian artists and poets and reputed to rot the brain if drunk in excess. Done in shades of absinthe green, the poster's only spots of color were the auburn of Regina's long, sinuous hair and her arresting blue eyes regarding the glass she held with anticipation.

When he'd asked his waiter about the poster's model, the man told him the artist Alphonse Mucha had chosen the famous grand horizontal Régine Laflamme to embody the Green Fairy, said to hide in the green liquor's depths until released into milky whiteness with the addition of ice water. She was a beguiling sprite who lured men to insanity and death.

Regina was certainly beautiful enough to lure men to their doom. When they'd first met all those years ago, he couldn't get her out of his mind no matter how hard he tried. And he had tried. He threw himself into his studies, trying to forget her, but she continued to haunt him. Once he graduated from Oxford and established himself in London, adding considerably to his own fortune through an aptitude for finance, he took a string of voluptuous, redheaded mistresses, but all were pale copies of Regina Willett, and their liaisons were usually unsatisfactory and short-lived.

He had to find her, no matter how long it took, no matter how much it cost.

Somehow, she had vanished.

Now, after years of persistent searching, he'd found her again and would never let her go.

Fatigue seeped deep into his bones. His eyelids drooped. He caught himself and took several slow breaths to clear his foggy brain. He'd been burning his candle at both ends since he'd arrived in Paris to check out his latest, most promising lead regarding Regina, and now that he'd found her, he could allow himself the luxury of restorative sleep.

He stepped out of the doorway to search for a cab, when Regina's front door swung open, and her companion emerged. By the glow of the porch light, the old gent had the smug, contented expression of a well-pleasured man. He hobbled toward his waiting carriage like a man twice his age.

A stab of jealousy struck Darius right in the balls. Regina must've screwed the poor bastard so hard, he could barely stand.

Darius swore under his breath. He should be the recipient of Regina's favors, the one to lie in her arms sexually sated after a wild ride between her thighs.

He watched as the driver opened the carriage door, pulled down the steps and physically steadied his master, whose features were twisted in pain as he tried to hoist himself inside. He finally succeeded. His driver shut the door, climbed into his own seat, and they ambled off, the soft clop of hoofbeats filling the night.

Darius watched the carriage disappear down the street. He looked up. Regina's bedroom window was now dark.

He hoped she rested well because tomorrow he intended to call on her and end their game of cat and mouse once and for all.

Chapter Four

Madame Soubrise's crowded, dimly lit parlor smelled of smoke, cheap perfume and lust.

Ivy Doucette sauntered down the main staircase with one hand lightly on the banister and the other arm in arm with Coco, the brothel's only black
belle du jour
whom Madame passed off as an exotic African, when in reality she came from New Orleans, Louisiana.

Madame preferred to offer them together to certain discerning gentlemen willing to pay extra to experience the erotic excitement of an interracial
ménage à trois
. Ivy's cool white porcelain skin contrasted dramatically with Coco's warm dark brown flesh, making them as striking as opposing pieces on a chessboard. Madame always introduced them as Mademoiselle
Vanille
and Mademoiselle
Chocolat,
though their regulars knew their real names.

Many a time certain gentlemen requested Ivy or Coco alone, which was fine with Ivy. Not that she minded fondling and pleasuring the other woman, for they often received generous tips they were allowed to keep for their performance. And it was a performance devoid of pleasure or emotional involvement on both sides, though an observer would never know it judging from their closed eyes, parted lips and convincing moans. But Ivy had a better opportunity of acquiring her own exclusive protector and leaving the brothel behind for good if she worked alone.

She felt all masculine eyes on her lush figure displayed by the black silk embroidered corset that barely covered the rosy nipples of her large, full breasts. The skimpy silk panties were sheer enough to show her pubic vee, and the black silk stockings held up by garters accented her long legs. Coco wore identical lingerie in virginal white for contrast.

They stopped halfway down so everyone could get a good look at them. Ivy removed her hand from the banister so she could trace her fingertips provocatively along the tops of her breasts.

Coco flipped back her long black tightly curled hair with her free hand. “Good crowd tonight.”

“Madame looks like a satisfied cat after a delicious supper of cream,” Ivy said.

“That's because with so many eager men here, she'll work us hard tonight and rake in the gold.” She looked around. “Which man catches your fancy?”

“As long as he's wealthy, I have no preference.”

Coco giggled. “Me, either. The richer, the better.”

Ivy prayed one of the gentlemen would request them for the entire night, otherwise she'd be on her back, spreading her legs for two or even three men, an exhausting prospect that would leave her sore all over and resentful.

She scanned the room again with the intensity of a tigress on the prowl, searching for familiar faces and any promising newcomers who might have pockets deep enough to take her away from this life.

A dapper older gentleman with a striking mane of white hair appeared in the doorway, and Ivy whispered, “Max is here,” to Coco.

Max Montblanc was Ivy's favorite patron. He was one of the few men who gave as well as received pleasure. And he always tipped most generously in addition to hiring both her and Coco for the whole night. Best of all, he treated them as they deserved to be treated, like ladies.

Ivy smiled at him, her bold gaze promising a wealth of physical satisfaction in her arms. Max smiled back. Madame Soubrise hurried over at once, for he was one of her wealthiest patrons and rated her immediate personal attention.

Ivy and Coco walked down the rest of the stairs.

Madame and Max concluded their negotiations, and money changed hands. With business out of the way, both turned and walked toward Ivy and Coco.

“Ladies,” Max said, reaching for their hands simultaneously, kissing one, then the other with charming gallantry, all the while keeping his gaze on Ivy's bountiful breasts.

Ivy and Coco smiled warmly and greeted him.

Madame Soubrise nodded in approval. “Monsieur
Montblanc has requested both of you for the entire evening.”

Ivy took his left arm, and Coco his right. Together they escorted him upstairs, and Ivy steered them to her room this time. The move was calculated on her part, for when Max was finally done with them and spent, Coco would return to her room and possibly another man, leaving Ivy alone with him, a perfect time to put her plan into action.

Once inside Ivy's room, which was dimly lit and smelled as fresh as a field of lavender, she and Coco began undressing Max with practiced, eager fingers, as though he was so desirable they couldn't wait to get him out of his clothes. Frock coat and waistcoat went first, then he had to sit on the bench at the foot of the bed so they could kneel and remove his shoes and stockings like servile houris, all the while making sweet, suggestive comments designed to both relax and arouse him.

They pulled him to his feet so Coco could remove his shirt studs and Ivy his trousers. When it was her turn to perform this task, she could
ooh
and
ah
over his rampant erection and brush against it as she tugged down his trousers.

Within seconds, Max Montblanc's clothes were in a pile on the floor and he was standing naked.

Ivy found nothing thrilling about Max's aging body. He wasn't particularly broad-shouldered, like she preferred, or muscular enough to sweep her into his arms like one of the romantic Three Musketeers. His limbs were thin and as gangly as a teenage boy's. But at least he didn't sport thick rolls of fat around his midsection, which would've repulsed her with an aversion hard to hide.

Max may not have been her masculine ideal physically, but he was distinguished-looking and well-endowed. And he certainly knew where and how to touch a woman, making love with a deliberate, relentless intensity that made Ivy's toes curl.

He sat back down on the bench, spreading his legs slightly into a more comfortable position. “Ivy, I would like you to undress Mademoiselle
Coco, caressing her suggestively as you remove her clothes.”

She smiled, more than willing to play this new game. “Where would you like me to start?”

His hazel eyes darkened. “Her stockings.”

Coco obligingly sat in another chair. Ivy knelt at her feet, removed Coco's shoes, and then unhooked her garters slowly. As Ivy unrolled the first white silk stocking, she ran her fingertips down Coco's sensitive inner thigh, causing her to gasp in surprise. Out of the corner of her eye, Ivy saw Max's eyes narrow, and his nostrils flared with his quickened breathing. He liked watching her improvise during her performance. The second stocking followed.

She looked at Max. “I am yours to command, monsieur. What would you have me remove next?”

“Free her from her stays.”

Ivy took Coco's hand and pulled her to her feet.

Before unlacing Coco's white corset, she pushed aside the other woman's thick, curly mane and rained kisses down the back of her neck. Coco shivered and groaned. The sounds made Max's cock twitch. Now Ivy undid the laces, and when she was through, she tossed the corset on the chair, leaving Coco clothed in only a sheer wisp of silk panties. Ivy slid her hands beneath Coco's arms and grasped her breasts, squeezing them hard and pinching the dusky nipples until she mewed with pleasure and let her head loll back against Ivy's shoulder.

“Excellent,” Max murmured, his voice rough with growing desire. Both hands grasped the edge of the bench, though Ivy suspected he'd like to grasp his cock instead. “Now her panties.”

Ivy ran her hands from Coco's breasts, down her waist and hips, catching her fingers on the silk and pulling them down her partner's legs, all the way to her ankles. Coco stepped gracefully out of her panties, and Ivy rose.

“Now, Coco,” he said. “Do the same to Mademoiselle
Ivy.”

Before Ivy sat down to let Coco remove her shoes, she gave the other woman a quick, surprising kiss full on the lips, a display which Max seemed to enjoy. Then Coco repeated the same steps to strip Ivy, and soon they were both standing naked before their very eager and magnificently aroused client.

He smiled crookedly and rose from the bench. “Ladies, I think it's time we retire to the bed.”

Ivy slid into bed from the right, and Coco from the left, leaving room in the middle for Max. He climbed in from the foot of the bed, and soon he was very comfortably ensconced between the two women, an arm around each of them.

He smiled at Ivy. “I always feel like the filling in a delicious sandwich.”

Ivy giggled at the image and walked her fingers playfully across his chest. “I am French bread and Coco is brown bread.”

“Brown bread is much tastier,” Coco purred, stroking Max's arm.

Ivy resisted the impulse to scratch Coco's eyes out. Why was she worried? Coco presented no threat. Max might pay for a night of her favors, but set her up in her own establishment as his mistress? Never. That would truly scandalize the straitlaced members of his upper-crust family.

Max pulled Coco toward him and kissed her. “Very tasty indeed.” Then he turned to Ivy and kissed her, leaving the mint taste of Coco's mouth on hers. “Hmm, just as tasty.”

Ivy granted him a wide, flattering smile of delight. “Such a diplomat, monsieur.”

“When a man is raised with three sisters, he learns diplomacy at a very early age.”

Impatient, Coco writhed against him, claiming his attention. “How can we please you this evening?”

In the six months since Ivy had known Coco, the black woman had never been one to make the interesting small talk required of the perfect courtesan. That's why she'd never rise higher than a whore in a brothel.

In response, Max tweaked one of Ivy's ruddy nipples, causing her to whimper and groan. “I would like you to use that very clever mouth of yours on my prick, my dear.”