This Man and Woman (6 page)

She twisted within his embrace, melding against that rock-hard abdomen…and something even harder. Foreign. It should shock. Frighten. Warn. It did neither. It added to the fog of corporeal essence surrounding her. Something tremendously wrong was happening, turning her into a creature of submission and wanton behavior.

The door opened, sending night air into the enclosure. Jean-Pierre lifted his head, separating their lips. Takaiya kept her eyes tightly closed. The chauffeur cleared his throat. His voice might hold embarrassment, but her ears didn’t hear it.

“Begging pardon, Sir. We’ve arrived.”

They’d arrived
.

Jean-Pierre didn’t answer. The chauffeur didn’t act like he expected it. One moment they sat entwined on the leather seat, and the next they were moving with speed that lifted her hair. She heard the car drive off. Doors opening and shutting. He carried her. She didn’t fight it. The feel of being in his arms sent tingling where they touched her back and beneath her knees. She didn’t doubt his strength. She’d seen it crush a man. And she wasn’t at all sure her legs would hold her. It was better to just stay cradled in his embrace, awash in a sensation of warmth and security.

His movements changed, as if descending, but that was odd. There wasn’t any sense of steps. Everything about his movement was sure and solid…and soundless. There must be a thick carpet beneath him. They leveled off. She opened her eyes to check, blinked, and then went slack-jawed.

The view from over his shoulder included a thick archway that sent a shadow toward them from the light they’d just left. The archway framed a double staircase, rising from both sides. Although the door was high, she couldn’t see if the steps met, or where. She’d seen pictures of that type of architecture, but it belonged to long-vacated palaces in…perhaps Germany? Austria? She couldn’t remember.

There wasn’t any carpeting. The floor beneath him was of an off-white color, glossed to a mirror finish. It showcased the punctuation of furnishings: elaborately carved side tables, high-backed chairs, and paintings the height of three-story buildings. They reached the end of the room and turned into another one, this one ablaze with light from a low hanging, double row of crystal chandeliers, each larger than her apartment. They reflected and re-reflected off gilded walls, highlighting stuffed settees, carved tables, a grand-father clock that dwarfed them, and everywhere she looked was more richness.

He stopped, shuffling her slightly as he fussed with something behind her back.

“Is this real?” she asked.

He slanted a glance down toward her, imprinting her with amber-laden heat. An eyebrow quirked upward, and then he winked. Takaiya’s frame gave an answer with a little lurch against him. She had to look aside, suffering another blush that warmed her cheeks. That gained her an immediate tightening of his arms about her, and an accompanying hardness in his chest. The man was astoundingly stunning. Women had to have reacted to him long before her. This couldn’t be entirely her fault!

A click sounded behind her and then a long hum. He stepped back as a vault door swung into the space they’d just vacated.

“Define real,” he finally replied.

“The furnishings…all about.”

“Oh. That.
Oui.
They are real furnishings.”

Takaiya lowered her chin and regarded him, using her blankest stare until he looked away. A becoming flush overtook the lower portion of his face, making it more sculpted. And his lips looked strangely askew, as if bruised. Or plumped. Or pushed out by his tongue. Or something else.

“I meant…are they real antiques?”

“Oh. In that event, again the answer is
oui.
”

“They look museum quality.”

 “They are. Late Bourbon Dynasty. French. Old Regime. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I keep the prize pieces of my collection upstairs.”

“You do?”

“
Oui.
Much more dust and decay up there.”

That was puzzling. She let it go. She had more worries. He took them through a solid steel opening, entering what should be steel walls and bank vaulting. It wasn’t. She heard the door slowly close behind them as her eyes took in wainscoted walls, dark paneling above and darker wallpaper below. She couldn’t tell the paper color, due to the volume of furniture he’d filled the space with. The next room was worse. And the next. Every spot on the wall seemed packed with furniture, knick-knacks, and bric-a-brac. The quickness of his movement and the mass of patterns and color was nauseating. She focused back on him.

 “Looks like dust would be an issue here.”

“Really?”

“It’s too cluttered. Messy.”

“You don’t like late Victorian era?”

“I’ve never seen it before…but I don’t think so.”

“I’ll have it moved upstairs, too.”

He started moving again, passing from the Victorian parlor suite of rooms into one that echoed with space. Light.

Another smile touched his mouth, gapping it slightly, revealing the tips of very sharp teeth. Takaiya glanced there and he immediately sobered. Looked away. And then stopped beneath the shadow of another thick archway. This one required another code. Takaiya watched him concentrate as his hand moved behind her, punching numbers in. The door swung inward this time, revealing old iron stud-work along finely carved wood. Almost medieval-looking. Or early Italian renaissance. She hadn’t studied history other than that of the Hisushu Clan, so wasn’t sure.

No. It was definitely medieval. Nothing light or airy in sight.

“You have a lot of security.”

“When one has enemies, one compensates.”

The room they entered was constructed of so much stone it sucked at sound, despite all the space around them. Takaiya ran her eyes up one of the thick pillars, viewing a groin vaulted ceiling, also constructed of stone. The floor beneath them was a dull-looking parquet design of black and white. There were long slits cut into the walls, probably meant to portray windows, but it appeared that more stone filled the openings.

“Your home is very…interesting. All sorts of styles.”

“When one has interests, time, and funds, one can indulge in all kinds of fantasies,” he replied.

A dull fleck of fear gnawed in her gut. She was in trouble, and getting deeper. She’d come with a man into the bowels of his home. A strange man owning a lot of priceless items and a lot of security measures in place to guard them. There was a maze of rooms to transverse. It was going to be difficult to get back out, even if she knew the codes. Adding to that was the odd feeling of disembodiment seemed to be weakening, giving her back the ability to think and react. The strange will-sapping fog was also dispersing, granting her more clarity with every continuing breath.

He walked through the stone edifice place and into a fully stocked armory. Every sort of weapon lined the walls – from modern guns to flintlock pistols set up in circular designs. Her eyes took in a view no museum could touch. He had masses of shields, spears, hammers, and axes, while swords of every kind and description fanned out on the walls, their arrangement possibly designating era or purpose. In the alcoves separating the displays, stood full sets of body armor – plated for a knight, chainmail such as that depicted in the Bayeux tapestry for a Norman. And on one wall, beside a Samurai warrior ensemble, there was a conspicuously bare spot of two empty hooks.

And then she understood.

Takaiya swallowed and stifled the instant trepidation.

He left the armory, passed beneath another arch, taking her into a domed circular alcove of glass-walled beauty. Takaiya stared at the profusion of foliage beyond the walls, blooming under fake sunlight, and swaying to fake breezes.

“This room—?” She didn’t finish the question. She didn’t know what to ask.

“Is one of my fantasies. Come. I didn’t bring you here for explanations.”

He walked to the center of the room, noted by the ocular opening directly above it, and eased her onto her feet, where she swayed for a fraction of time.

“Why…did you bring me, then?” She’d curse the hesitant, almost fearful note in her voice later. But for now, it was all she had.

“You recall I spoke of what would happen should you lose our duel?”

Takaiya pulled in a large breath and held it, and watched the circular opening in the roof rotate for a bit before it settled. The realm of sensuality that had blanketed her was completely gone now. She was chilled. Bewildered. Alarmed. All she could do was keep it hidden.

“I did not lose.”

She lowered her head and sent the words to where he’d moved over to a large, thickly hewn wood table, capable of seating twenty. At either end, a tall torch holder stood, and with a click of something on the table, the torches burst into flame. Another click and the lights behind the glass dimmed, not to pitch black, but enough to cause disorientation. It was very dramatic-looking. And vaguely threatening.

She didn’t blink as he faced her, unfastening each button of his jacket, sliding them from the holes. He didn’t watch what he was doing. He was watching her. He finished, slid the garment from his shoulders, put a crease down the center, and placed it atop the table behind him, where it contrasted with a covering of ancient, fragile-looking lace. The bowtie came off next. He worked the knot loose and then pulled the ribbon from around his neck. Then he started on his cuffs, lifting first one arm and then the other, defining thick, muscled biceps as he worked the links free.

“Ah,
Cherie.
You are quite right. You have not lost. Yet.”

The cufflinks hit the table, making tinkling noises as they settled somewhere on the surface behind him. He started rolling each sleeve to his elbow, giving her more visual proof of his power. Strength. Ability.
Prowess…

Takaiya locked her entire form against the series of tremors afflicting her. She felt like she’d been drugged, but was now completely sober. She wasn’t a weak, compliant, easily frightened woman. She was Takaiya Silva, daughter of the feared Hisushu Clan. A woman trained in the art of
Budo
. Deadly. Agile. Quick.

He walked to one end of the table, never taking his eyes from her, as if she might bolt from the area. Her chin rose as she kept his gaze. Where would she go? And why should she demonstrate such cowardice?

His destination was a long, thin, polished wooden box. Silver fastenings glinted with the torch light as he slid leather straps loose and raised the lid. And then he lifted two matching rapiers, their polished steel sending specs of light to flick off the glass walls. He tossed a sword toward her, handle down. She automatically caught it, wrapping her hand about the wrought handle.

“To first blood?” she asked.

A tremor scored him, seen even through the dimness and distance. Then he loomed right before her, backing her up a step. The man could move in a blink. She’d been raised hearing it was possible, but that was nothing like physically seeing it. Disconcerting. No wonder the ninjas treasured the ability.

“I think not, this time.”

“Then…what?”

“Until one of us…cries for mercy.”

Takaiya gulped. She could only hope it wasn’t as noticeable as it felt. She nodded.

“
En garde!
” He announced.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Wait!”

Jean-Pierre lowered his sword, her raised finger as well as the command halting him. He watched with narrowing eyes as she released a catch on her bracelet, flicked something to bring out a razor-sharp blade, and then started hacking at the front of her skirt with her free hand. Her antics revealed perfectly formed limbs, and something more. He got a quick glimpse of a knife strapped to one creamy thigh with a black garter, while the same color lace shielded any view up higher. It was nearly too much. His frame trembled, making the sword in his hand vibrate.

He immediately knew why she didn’t use her little knife. She was keeping it hidden for use later, letting him think the bracelet her lone protection. He was more concerned over the wooden pick still sticking above an ear. That had potential for incapacitation. Anything else was an annoyance, at best.

She finished the alteration of her gown, refastened her jewelry, and then worked at settling the dress back into place, molding it again all along her frame, highlighting curves he’d already felt against him, while the uneven hem, now just above the knees, revealed well-formed legs and ankles, ending in little, heelless, black shoes.

Merde, but she was good!

With nothing more than a blade, she fractured his concentration and bit into his stability. Incredible. And disquieting.

Steady, Jean-Pierre. Steady
.

He’d already counseled himself to take great care with this duel. Any aggression on his part was bound to kill or permanently scar. That’s why he’d purposely kept the tip on his rapier. He’d rather go to his grave than cause one bit of damage to her perfect woman body.

“Now…what is it you say?
En garde?
”

She may be ready. He might never be. He watched as she bent her knees slightly, putting the hacked piece of material between her thighs, before leaning back, lifting her sword before her. Her stance put even more of her on display, and in a more alarming position. His hand shook too much to raise the blade. So, to disguise it, he started talking, using words of instruction - not to teach, but to temper and calm.

“You ever fence with an epee before?” he asked.

“I’m no beginner,” she replied, slashing at the air in the same movements she’d use if she held her Samurai sword.

“It’s not the same as your
katana
.”

“It’s a sword. It’s capable of killing. What else is there?”

“A Samurai sword has a distinctive curve to it, created during the quenching process. They have the sharpest edge known to mankind. Made of polished, high-carbon steel, it’s extremely dangerous…on one side. Capable of slicing right through any number of things with one stroke. Such a stroke is delivered with a hacking, slashing motion, usually downward, requiring both hands.” He demonstrated with his rapier, doing his best to move slowly. Otherwise it would be a blur.