“You have seen the man again?”
“No,” she said. Was it a lie? She was certain that Ragnor ...
“I am there. At the station. Come and see me if you are frightened. Worried. Concerned. If your friend does not appear.”
“Thank you,” Jordan said.
A moment later, Raphael was sweeping down on her again. “The Pleasure Palace! We must go do the Pleasure Palace.”
“What exactly do they do?” she asked.
“They strip off your clothing, bathe you with oil and honey, and ravish you mercilessly!” he said.
“Maybe I’ll skip it.”
He sighed. “Don’t be silly. They bathe your hands in hot oils and slip cold sweet grapes between your lips. It’s fun; it’s nice.”
He wasn’t going to let up. “If I wind up ravished mercilessly, I’ll never forgive you,” she told him.
“If they start to ravish me mercilessly, and you stop them, I’ll never forgive you!” he replied. “Come, come, we’ll have fun.”
Apparently, many people shared that view. The lines were long?one on either side of a brilliantly colored harem-like tent set up in the rear of the room. It appeared that they were mixing couples, taking one person at a time from each side of the line. A woman dressed as Marie Antoinette appeared with a man costumed as Julius Caesar. They were both laughing.
“Viene, viene! Come, come!” beckoned one of the girls in a harem costume. She held open the festooned flap to the tent.
Raphael gave Jordan a little push.
She stepped forward and into the tent.
The flap fell, and instantly, she felt as if she had stepped into a black pit.
For a moment, there was nothing. The darkness seemed overwhelming.
She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking that it would help her adjust to the total darkness. She had the strangest feeling of being pulled forward.
Come to me.
She wondered if she had heard the words, or imagined them. There was a scent in the tent; probably some kind of an incense, and yet. ..
Sandalwood, she thought. It reminded her of Steven. So much was reminding her of Steven lately. It was, she reflected ruefully, the intense attraction she was feeling for another man. Steven was gone, lost to her. It was all right to move on.
Come to me.
The words were so strongly set into her mind that she nearly walked forward. But she did not; the darkness was suddenly overwhelming. Fear bubbled in her, an almost uncontrollable panic. Something was going to jump out at her, rush her, sweep her into something horrible.
She could feel it, sense it, nearly taste it, touch it. . .
There was a very gentle touch on her hand. She almost screamed aloud. But she could see then, faintly.
The harem girl was wearing something in her headband that glowed in the dark.
The girl took her right hand. Another person reached for her left hand. She was drawn a step deeper into the tent, and then, though she didn’t touch anyone, she was aware that she was standing in front of another person. She felt the rays of warmth that seemed to surround her.
Her fear subsided. The strangest sense of total well-being stilled her rising panic.
Her palms were brought upward. Warm oil was poured into them and rubbed gently into the flesh. Her hair was lifted. The warmth was rubbed into her nape. Something cool and exotic touched her lips.
A grape.
She obediently ate it.
She could hear the person opposite her breathing. A man, evidently; the figure was tall. The whisper of his breath held a sweet scent of wine. He exuded an aura of power, and that strength and masculinity apparently gave her the sense of calm and security that now enwrapped her.
Great! she thought briefly. This is someone’s husband, for all I know!
The warmth he emitted touched her cheeks like a surge of sunlit air. A grape was pressed between her fingers, then she realized that they were being handed grapes to slip to one another. A grape touched her mouth again. She parted her lips and took it, marveling that the whole thing should have been rather silly, but that it wasn’t. She brought her grape to her darkly shadowed partner’s lips, and he too took in the fruit.
They were closer than they had been. She didn’t remember being so close.
The oils that had been worked in at her nape and her palms seemed to grow hotter. A whisper of deepening heat seemed to work its way into her. A languor stole over her; she could easily lean forward, find the hands that touched her, will them to work their magic ...
Fingers pressed into her shoulders in a kneading massage. She felt the tension slip away, felt the stranger’s breath, and a stealing ray of lightning sweep through her. She closed her eyes. She could sleep, she could curl up with a total stranger, she could feel a sweet and slow-burning fire that somehow came with the languor, but defied it. Knuckles brushed her throat, caressing softly. Her hands were drawn to the stranger, to his cheek, to the lapel of his jacket, down the fabric of the breast. Something came to her lips again. Wine. Warm, rich, fruity. Delicious. Then fingers again, on her shoulders, stroking her cheeks
...
A chime sounded, startling her from the reverie which had laid claim to her. The harem girl with the glow-in-the-dark headdress took her hand again, leading her to the exit.
She stepped through the flap and was startled, then angry, to find Ragnor right in front of her, waiting to help her down the steps. She had taken his hand before even seeing him. What an idiot. She should have known, should have recognized his scent, the size of him, the height!
“You planned that?”
“Excuse me, we were in opposite lines! And you walked into the Pleasure Palace of your own volition.”
“Jordan!” Raphael called, ready to slip beneath the flap of the tent. “Were you wildly ravished?”
“No!”
“Damn!” he said, just as the harem girl slipped beneath the flap.
Ragnor was openly amused.
“That was very rude,” Jordan said.
“Why? You’re not supposed to know who you’re getting.”
“But you did, didn’t you?”
“Be glad I was here.”
“Why?”
“Someone else might have ravished you. You were putty.”
“What?”
“Putty. Jelly. Molding clay.”
“Oh, really? I do beg your pardon!”
“I needed to be there for you. You were just ... compelled.”
“Compelled! When I walked in, I was?”
“You were what?” he demanded, frowning.
“Scared,” she admitted. She left him standing by the tent and started across the room; Raphael would have to fend for himself when he came out. After all, he was Italian, and this was his shop’s party.
But then she paused, looking back. Ragnor had been following her at a leisurely pace.
“Did you see Tiff?” she asked him. “Was she home?had she not heard us? Or gone out? Did she come here with you?”
He shook his head, his eyes suddenly guarded. “I’m sorry. I waited. I didn’t see her.”
“And you haven’t seen her at the party?”
“No.”
Before Jordan could question him further, Raphael rushed up to them, his turn in the Pleasure Palace complete. He put an arm around Jordan’s waist and buried his head against her shoulder. “Ugh! You two
... you two got each other! And me .. . allora!”
“What happened? Were you ravished?”
“Nearly eaten alive by a four-hundred-pound Amazon! She giggled insufferably and put her fingers where they were not supposed to be put!”
“You wanted to be ravished,” Jordan reminded him politely.
“Yes, but. .. one wants to be ravished by the right people.”
“You take your chances in the Pleasure Palace,” Ragnor said, then added, “Excuse me.” He left them, and started toward the one open balcony where the smokers, and those who just needed some air, had gathered.
Jordan watched him go, nonplused. She’d been so angry to discover that he had been the one with her.
Because again, she had felt that intense . .. beguilement. After the fear. The very real and horrible fear she had experienced at first.
Just by standing there, he had done something that had lulled her. Maybe she should have remained afraid.
But now had walked away. She felt at a loss.
And cold again, as if his warmth were seeping away.
“Let’s get back to dancing,” Raphael said.
On their way back through the second floor ballroom, Jordan noticed Cindy and Jared waltzing together. When they reached the ground floor, they stopped for espressos laced with liqueur.
There were at least three dottores on the dance floor.
They had barely begun when Roberto Capo cut in on Jordan. “My friend never showed up,” she told him, shouting over the music. “I’m worried about her.”
“You are certain that she isn’t here?somewhere?”
“I’m not certain of anything, but she wasn’t at her palazzo tonight, which was strange, very strange.
Having that little party meant a lot to her. I’m worried, and you’re the only one who listens to me.” She was exasperated, and probably speaking too quickly for him, but he seemed to understand her.
“Come tomorrow to the station. To see me. Me, you understand?” She nodded her thanks, then quickly fell silent. Over his shoulder, she could see a dottore approaching.
The dottore cut in. Jared?
Unease welled within her. Because it might be Jared?
Or because it might not?
CHAPTER 12
The dottore was a German with a good grasp of Italian and a little English. He was a pleasant man.
As they danced, she saw that Cindy had come down with Jared. At least, she thought it was Jared.
Her German dottore was fun, and a wild dancer. After three numbers, she was breathless, and begged herself off the dance floor. Downing a tall glass of mineral water, she saw that there were now at least four dottores in the room.
She wished that Jared had opted for something a little more original, at least chosen different costumes for each party.