A Dangerous Game (15 page)

Ana shrugged.

"Alfonso was too busy making money to care, scheming with that

disgusting Nazi, Heinrich Schlemann.
 
And Juanita had done her duty by

him, hadn't she?
 
She gave him Carlos.
 
That's what he wanted: a son.

There's no doubt about Carlos's paternity.
 
He looks just like

Alfonso."
 
She pointed suddenly.

"There's dear Raoul.
 
Come and meet him.
 
You'll love him.
 
All the

women do."

Jacey saw a young man in a crowd of laughing guests, and as Ana urged

her forward she suddenly realised that he looked familiar.
 
Much too

familiar.
 
She recognised the large, brown eyes, the perfect oval face,

the dark, brown hair with a hint of gold.
 
She felt her cheeks begin to

flush with embarrassment.

"Raoul, my dear."
 
Ana pushed Jacey forward.

"I

want you to meet our new doctor.
 
This is Jacey Muldaire."

The young man turned with the same dancer's grace that Jacey had

admired before, and smiled.
 
Jacey remembered the smile, too.

"We've already met," he said.

"Oh?"
 
Ana looked slightly put out.

"You didn't tell me," she challenged Jacey.

"Aunt Ana," Raoul said, "I doubt if you gave the poor lady a chance to

get a word in edgeways."
 
He held out his hand to Jacey.

"I'm so glad you could come, Dr.
 
Muldaire."
 
Instead of relinquishing

his grasp, he tightened it, and pulled her gently forward.

"Please, come and talk to me.
 
I'd like to practise my English."

The crowd parted for them and Raoul led Jacey towards an open French

window and on to a wide balcony surrounded by a balustrade.
 
There were

several other couples already out there but they slipped discreetly

back inside when Raoul appeared.

By now Jacey's embarrassment was turning to anger.

"You let me make a complete fool of myself at the hospital," she

said.

"Why on earth didn't you tell me who you were?"

He turned her to face him suddenly, and held her by both shoulders.

Once again, she saw how handsome he was, but his perfectly proportioned

body and flawlessly regular features made him seem vaguely androgynous.

Looking at him gave her the same kind of pleasure she got from seeing a

beautiful painting but it did not excite her sexually.

"Please," he said, in English, 'you must forgive me."

"Please," she said, in the same language, 'explain why you lied to

me."

He laughed.

"Because it was so amusing to be mistaken for a gigolo.

And one of Julia's gigolos at that.
 
Julia thought it was hilarious.

But she also thought I would be worth a thousand dollars for a night of

love.
 
I was very upset that you did not agree."

"It was a ridiculous price," she said.

"And fancy telling Senora Atriega.
 
Whatever will she think of me

now?"

He shrugged.

"Nothing bad.
 
How could she?
 
She has often told me that I am so

desirable that I should sell myself and make a fortune."
 
He looked

suddenly mournful.

"And then you tell me you wouldn't buy me.

I'm desolated."

"No, you're not," Jacey said crisply.

"I'm sure this house is full of young women who would be only too happy

to leap into bed with you."

"You're absolutely right," he agreed with disarming honesty.

"But I don't want them.
 
I want you."
 
He moved closer to her.

"We could make sweet music together," he said soulfully.

It was so corny that she almost laughed.
 
She had to put him off.

"I'm already in a relationship," she said.

"With Peter Draven?
 
I can give you so much more than he can."
 
His

brown eyes explored her face with such intensity that she felt as if

they were stroking her skin.

"Much, much more," he murmured.

"What do Englishmen know about making love?
 
They're always in a

hurry."
 
He fixed his gaze on the expanse between her neck and the top

of her black dress, moving his eyes deliberately to where her nipples

pressed against the silky cloth.
 
He pursed his lips slightly and

smiled, leaving her in no doubt as to what he was thinking.

"I could arouse you just with my mouth," he said softly.

"Just my lips and my tongue.

I would start by kissing you until you were breathless, and then I

would move all over your body, very slowly.
 
Can you imagine the tip of

my tongue exploring you?
 
Exploring every part of you?

Every secret part."
 
He leant closer and she felt the warmth of his

breath brushing her cheek.

"Think about it.
 
Imagine my lips on your skin, torturing you with

pleasure."

It was a ridiculously theatrical speech, she thought, like a seduction

scene out of a bad movie.
 
Yet it was also curiously stimulating.
 
She

longed to be aroused by the intimate movements of someone's mouth.
 
She

had always enjoyed the sensation, but several of her previous partners

had no idea of the interesting ways in which they could use their

tongues.
 
Some of them didn't even know how to kiss properly.
 
They had

often left her disappointed and frustrated.
 
She had a feeling that

Raoul would be one of those rare men who actually enjoyed lengthy

foreplay, and that he would take the trouble to discover exactly how

his partner liked to be caressed.

"Maybe I would explore your beautiful neck?"
 
His voice was a low,

hypnotic monotone.

"Would you enjoy that?
 
And then your shoulders.
 
And your throat.
 
And

then down to your breasts.
 
I think you would unfasten your dress for

me.
 
I think you would encourage me."

He was closer still, his mouth approaching hers.
 
Although his words

were certainly making her feel sexy, she was acutely aware that in her

mind's eye she was seeing a totally different kind of man.
 
Taller,

harder, and more masculine.
 
Nothing like the beautiful Raoul; her

composite man was not unlike Nicolas Schlemann.
 
And the more she tried

to banish the image, the stronger it became.

She remembered his dark, unreadable eyes, the firm grip of his hand,

and the attractively irregular hair framing that dangerous-looking

face.
 
She remembered the way his taut muscles moved under his tanned

skin when he stripped off his shirt.
 
All right, she thought, Nicolas

Schlemann is physically attractive.
 
And he was deliberately being nice

to me.
 
Like a cat playing with a mouse?
 
The image came to her

unexpectedly.
 
He had reminded me of a cat, a cat preening.
 
That

prompted another memory:

the controlled power of his movements when he had partially undressed

and then pulled his clothes back on.
 
How would he make love, she

wondered?
 
She had a feeling that he would like to be in control.

All the time.
 
Would it exciting to be told what to do?

She suddenly remembered Faisel, and his brutal use of her body and

emotions.
 
She heard his voice, still clear in her mind after all those

years, demanding service me!
 
But that was different, she thought.
 
He

wasn't acting out of love, or even sexual desire.
 
He used me for his

own selfish ends.
 
I was an innocent, silly teenager.
 
And he was a

bastard who really hated women.

She remembered the first time she had seen Faisel with one of his

boyfriends, seen them holding hands, then kissing.
 
She had watched

Faisel turn his head and stare at her as she gawped at him, her mouth

half-open with shock.
 
He had deliberately reached for his companion's

crotch, fondled the bulge of his erection for a few moments, then

unzipped the boy's jeans and pulled them slowly down to his knees.

The boy was not wearing any underwear.
 
His penis looked huge as it

strained upwards.
 
Faisel knelt down and grasped the boy's buttocks,

fingers digging and massaging, while his mouth sucked greedily at that

swollen cock.
 
She remembered the boy's noisy orgasm, his body shaking

violently, and the way Faisel had turned to her and smiled triumphantly

afterwards.

It was then that she had discovered why he had duped her into marriage.

His family expected him to conform.
 
She must have looked like a gift

from heaven, too young, infatuated, and innocent to suspect the truth.

A foreigner, who would be a virtual prisoner once she arrived in his

native country, trapped by her ignorance of the language and the law.

He had married her with callous disregard to her future and her

happiness because his family expected him to be a dutiful son, and a

husband.
 
She remembered sobbing with frustrated rage, determined to

find a way of informing his parents about his deception, and wondering

how to enlist their help to get back home.

She did not realise that the true horror was yet to come, and that his

family would be willing collaborators.

She dismissed her memories.
 
She was well aware that Nicolas Schlemann

was probably a womaniser, but if she had an affair with him, at least

she would be in control.
 
She could walk away from him any time she

liked.
 
Then her common sense took over.
 
Don't even consider it, she

told herself.
 
You, of all people, should not be seduced by

appearances.
 
And Nicolas Schlemann is probably a selfish, hasty

lover.

Raoul put his hands on her waist and began to slide them upwards.

"I

think you would like to feel my tongue circle your nipples," he

whispered.

"I think maybe they are already erect, waiting for me to excite them

even more."

She abruptly stopped daydreaming, and tried to think of a polite way of

discouraging him from going any further.
 
She didn't want to hurt his

feelings.

His voice changed tone, became more urgent, louder.

"Come upstairs with me.
 
There is a beautiful room where we can be

alone."

She put her hands on his chest and pushed him back playfully but

firmly.

"You're very sweet, Raoul, but I'm ... too old for you."

He laughed.

"You're not.
 
I'm twenty-one and you're maybe six years older?"
 
She

did not correct him.

"That's no age at all," he said.