Ghost in Her Heart (6 page)

The guards let her into Dagon’s office, then
left the heavy door a discrete crack open. She glanced at it in
surprise. It had been a long time since she’d been around people so
conscientious about proprieties.

One glance at Dagon and she understood better
why. The man was still dressed in only black pants and red sash.
The hard expanse of his bare chest and the power in his arms were
magnetic. It was all she could do to drag her eyes away and look
him in the eye. Even so, she felt her face burning and prayed she
wasn’t blushing.

“You look warm,” he drawled, eyeing the
bright sunset orange, yellow and reds of her sarong. Her top was a
more sedate rust color, a long sleeved, cropped shirt with a V-neck
that clung to her curves and showed a generous length of smooth
abdomen. His eyes lingered there, causing her color to heighten,
before he gestured her to a low table spread with refreshments and
pile of cushions. “Seat yourself and I’ll pour you a cool
drink.”

Glad of the excuse he gave her, she quickly
sat on a geometric patterned cushion. Strong like the man who owned
them, the sapphire, ruby and bronze colors of the cushions
supported her in silky comfort. There was something disturbingly
intimate about the way he reclined on their softness, rarely taking
his eyes off her as he ate.

Unaccountably, she felt shy. She’d sought him
out with an agenda, but now had difficulty untying her tongue. It
would help if he would stop staring at her like that.

Dagon didn’t care if she spoke or not. He was
engaged in a pleasant fantasy of dragging his tongue down the
centerline of her pretty stomach. The temptation to suck on her
skin, to caress the tempting softness there was powerful. She might
like it. By the way she kept sneaking looks at his bare skin, she
might even welcome a little body play.

Perhaps he should save room for dessert.

Her throat worked as she swallowed, drawing
his eyes there. Oh, yes. He could feel the hunger growing.

As if girding for battle, she stiffened. “I
would like translators put in the woman’s room,” she said finally,
with a militant gleam in her eye. “We would like to read in your
language.”

“Certainly. I’ll have video translations made
available as well. I’m glad to see you taking such an interest in
your new home,” he said without hesitation. He grinned at her look
of confusion.

Her shoulders slumped as she lost momentum,
then an irked expression crossed her face. “Good. Then you don’t
mind if I study the problem of your women’s fertility for myself. A
fresh perspective may shed light on the problem.”

Puzzled at her motive, he said cautiously,
“Even if you solved the mystery tomorrow, I would not let you
leave. None of the women we have left is young. You will still bear
a daughter.” Many of them, in fact, but there was no need to remind
her of that just then.

Resentment shown in her eyes. “Have you
considered that the daughters you are so set on will carry your
genes? What if they have trouble bearing daughters? It would be
smart to study the matter further now, before you have another
crisis.”

He hadn’t considered that. But somehow he
doubted it was concern for his people that motivated her. “And what
do you get out of it?”

“It will keep my mind busy. I didn’t spend
all my time working myself to death for an education to let my mind
go to pot now.”

He’d bet his armor there was more motivating
her than just that. Maybe she planned to gain access to tools that
could help her escape. He would have to set someone to watch
her—one of younger men. Someone tolerant. The time spent together
might even form into a match. Surely the sooner she was wedded and
bedded, the more tractable she would be.

A flash of heat at the thought made his
nostrils flare.

The pros and cons of letting her have her way
flashed through his mind. What could it hurt? And if it kept her
busy…Besides, it would be the perfect opportunity to win a boon
from her. After all, it wasn’t very often that he had a pretty
woman indebted to him. “Very well. But it will cost you. Are you
familiar with the art of massage?”

She eyed him like something foul that she
didn’t want to step in. “Why?”

Dagon gifted her with a predator’s smile.
“It’s the price of my cooperation. And it would be a pleasant
gesture on your part.” Without waiting for her answer, he rolled
over on his stomach, laid his head on his arms and closed his eyes.
She might as well get used to accepting a man’s will. Her future
husband would thank him for beginning her training.

As he’d known she would, she eventually
rounded the table and sank down by his side, but not without some
muttering. As her hands gingerly touched his back, she grumbled,
“Is there anything else you want, your greatness?”

Amused by the way she made a slur of his
title, he murmured, “Mm. I don’t think you’re ready yet for what
I’d really like.”

Her hands stilled, then commenced pounding on
his back with satisfying force. It didn’t last, though. Those small
hands of hers took more punishment than he did, and soon she had to
resume a slower rubbing motion.

It felt incredibly good. Very erotic. He was
tempted to roll over and offer to give her the same service, though
his version would be considerably more provocative. Glad he was on
his belly, covering the result of his heated thoughts, he quieted
himself to enjoy her attentions. After all, he had not chosen
her…yet.

But she had come to him. Surely that entitled
him to some playfulness?

The temptation was too great to bear. “Tell
me,
adajah
, how is it that you remained chaste in a world as
promiscuous as your own? You’re quite old to be still a—ow!” He
rolled over so quickly she fell away from him. No one had dared to
strike him outside of battle in many years. It may have only been a
cuff on the back of his head, but her audacity shocked him.

It turned him on a little, too. Or maybe that
was a result of her inelegant sprawl, which put her within easy
reach. The length of leg she was showing didn’t hurt, either.

Before he could thunder at her, she snapped,
“That’s rude to mention, you—you jerk! How could you guys sneak
around, taking secret photos of us...or whatever you did. If I’d
wanted a bunch of horny guys to see me naked, I’d have posed for
Playboy and gotten paid for it!”

Dagon gaped at her. “Had I seen you naked,
woman, I’d have remembered it! We did scans, true, but―”

“You invaded my privacy, and every other
woman’s here. As for how you could know that we, that I…” She
trailed off and looked away.

“That’s a very small thing, compared to what
we intend to do to you.” The heated words were a threat, true, but
one he regarded with sensual promise. Too late, he realized how it
would sound to her. He reached for her.

Vana shot to her feet and backed away. Aiming
for the door, she circled him, careful to stay out of reach.

“Vana.” He stood up, extended his hand toward
her. It only made her step quicker.

She slipped through the door and was
gone.

Frustrated, he glared at the floor. That had
been foolish of him. A man never threatened a woman with such
things. But when she stood up to him as if she were twice her size
and muscled as well, he forgot that inside she was nothing but soft
woman, easily wounded.

Well, maybe not entirely soft, he corrected
himself ruefully as he considered the last few minutes. The woman
had spine. It made him want to dominate her, and the fire in his
blood told him how. Unfortunately, he was not free to choose a
woman based on lustful attraction. As leader of his people, he
needed something more. Someone with queenly qualities. Though he
hadn’t quite defined what those were, he doubted Vana had them. How
could she? It was unlikely that the first woman he’d gotten to know
would posses every quality he’d ever need in a wife. A wise man
would get to know the others before he even thought about making a
choice.

Unaccountably restless, he paced to the
window and looked out. The spires of the city he cared for did not
soothe him as they usually did. He knew the cause. The women were
in the Bride House, waiting. Years of sexual frustration told him
that nothing was more important than seeking them out. Yet his
father’s example stayed him.

Though long dead, Dagon’s father Nadir still
influenced his choices. He’d been a good father, but a poor
husband. Anything his wife Ellyn had wanted, she’d gotten. In
return she’d born him son after son. While it had given Nadir much
happiness, for only a son could hold the throne, it had not pleased
Ellyn. Instead of correcting her increasingly objectionable
behavior, Nadir had simply hired male caretakers—females did not do
such menial things—for his children and spent more time on matters
of state. He’d practically raised his sons, while Ellyn withdrew to
the point of a bitter wraith. While she’d mellowed with time and
adjustment to her disappointment, Dagon had not forgotten how she’d
been.

He did not want a woman like her.

Vana’s moods reminded him too much of his
mother.

Perhaps he should take a closer look at the
girl Jen. She’d held up well under pressure, and her golden hair
was lovely. Ser might consider it poaching, but Dagon had a right
to look where he chose. After all, it wasn’t as if the two were
promised yet.

Feeling better, he turned from the window and
selected some clothes. He had a queen to find.

***

Vana knew he was there, but she didn’t care.
The way Dagon looked over the women, as if choosing his dinner from
finely stocked table, sickened her. Not once did he glance her way,
and that was fine with her, too. She retreated to her alcove, found
a pair of loose midnight pants and a scarlet top that bound her
chest adequately. A gold sash bound the pants securely to her
middle. Moments later, she flung her curtain aside and marched off
to glare her message at one of the guard-escorts. Silently, he
followed her from the harem.

The huge practice room the men worked in was
mostly empty. She chose a side room, looked to see that it had no
exits or windows, then turned to her guard. “You can see I can’t
give you the slip in here. I’d appreciate it if you stayed outside
while I worked out. I like my privacy.” She stared at him.

He stared back. Slowly, he nodded.

Relieved, she shut the door and faced the
mirrored walls. Since the age of nine, when they’d introduced it in
her school, she’d practiced Jujitsu. In collage she’d taken
whatever martial art was available. Since she’d sucked at team
sports and anything involving a ball, it had seemed wise. Besides,
she’d enjoyed it, and it was practical. There’d even been some
weapons training, and she was delighted to find several staffs in
racks along one wall. Later she would practice with those.

Nature had been kind to her. Blessed with
stretchy ligaments, it hadn’t taken her long to manage both the
Chinese and American splits. It felt good to indulge in them now.
And while she had always hated patterns and had difficultly
remembering them, she’d practiced enough strikes, blocks and kicks
to keep her sweaty. It was hard to say how effective she’d be in an
actual fight, but that didn’t keep her from practicing. At least
the movements kept her fit.

It was a relief to forget where she was, and
what was expected of her. The outlet for her anger alone made all
the practice hours she’d spent worth it. The burn was feeling so
good, in fact, that the muscle she tore while sending a roundhouse
kick at a shadow target caught her by surprise. She yelped, then
leaned over, panting. It stung, but it wouldn’t kill her. It did
put a damper on her practice, though. Stupid high-kicks. Even when
she warmed up, they sometimes popped that silly muscle.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, she opened
the door.

Her keeper frowned at her as she hobbled out.
“Do you need help?”

“No.” The terse word must have been enough,
for he didn’t bother her again. She gauged the limping distance to
the door and blinked in surprise. There was a gaggle of four
children gathered around her, staring at her curiously.

“What were you doing?” a tow headed lad who
must have been eleven asked. He looked very grave, as if he were
addressing someone of importance. “We heard shouting.”

Pleasantly surprised by the young ones, she
shrugged. “I was working out.”

“Yes, but what were you doing?” a younger lad
of maybe nine asked. He was missing a tooth, and had a black tattoo
on his right cheek. “Do you dance?” He looked eager.

“Jujitsu is a martial art, not a dance. I
hate to disappoint you, but I’m a terrible dancer.”

There was a hum of surprise among the boys.
The blond said suspiciously, “But women aren’t allowed to do such
things.”

Vana glanced at her guard. He was frowning at
her like someone who’d love to give a lecture but wasn’t certain it
was his place.

“What’s your name?” she asked, stalling.

“Devin,” the boy answered. “This little dark
one is Keg, the twins are Gamin and Bajeng.” The twins he indicated
looked to be six. Both had dark hair caught up in topknots and dark
eyes ringed in thick lashes. The stern looks they sent her saved
them from the classification of too cute for words, though they
edged dangerously close to adorable.

Quelling her grin, Vana said gravely, “Things
are different where I come from. Women are well advised to take
care of themselves, because we don’t have men following us around
willing to do it for us.” She nodded at her guard as if he were
actually doing her a useful service.

The short haired Devin considered that. “You
have Dark Ones who would steal you there?”

In spite of her best efforts, her mouth
twitched. “Ahem. I don’t know about that. But there are muggers,
and killers, and men with, uh, unsavory things on their mind. It’s
just not safe to be ignorant when you’re the only one looking out
for your own safety.”