Golden Paradise (27 page)

His temper showed minutely in a faint crispness in his voice, but it was several tedious minutes more before he was able to disengage the last beautiful clinging woman from his arm, make the last gracious refusal to dinner or something more intimate and break away from the mass of people intent on fawning sociability.

The floor was open between them because the orchestra hadn't yet resumed playing, and when Stefan stepped out onto the polished parquet, his progress was noted by every pair of eyes in the room.

He was obviously on some urgent mission, dressed as he was; he wasn't simply passing an idle night two thousand miles away from the war. And while his fiancée was in attendance tonight, no one to whom he'd spoken had heard him ask for her. The style of his engagement, though, was common knowledge, and none of the guests labored under the illusion that he was here for Nadejda. So they watched, avidly curious and titillated by the demonstrable impetuousness of his appearance.

The Golden Countess, it was seen as he crossed the midpoint of the ballroom floor, was apparently the object of his advance. And it didn't surprise a single soul. Prince Bariatinsky had always had an eye for the exotic in women, and surely the Countess was exceptional. Was the rumor true, too, that the Countess and he were… friends? Did Nadejda's spiteful disregard for the Countess have basis in fact?

It looked very much as though it did.

The buzz of speculation rose in a low humming resonance like bees over a flower bed as the distance between the General and Countess lessened. People instinctively held their breaths… waiting.

Reaching Lisaveta in three strides more, Stefan acknowledged the two men at her side with the merest of curt nods and brusquely
said,
his voice very low and, Borsoff said later, hot with temper, "Countess, may I have a moment of your time?" Without waiting for her answer, he took her hand in a grip just short of punishing and, leaving the two men openmouthed, began stalking toward the terrace doors.

They were the focus of everyone's breath-held scrutiny, but the three people who might actually have done something were all missing at that moment. Nikki was in the card room as was his custom at balls, Alisa had been cornered in the refreshment room by a young matron intent on describing her last confinement in lurid detail, and Nadejda was petulantly upbraiding a maid in the powder room for not adjusting her shoulder flounce properly. So Stefan was allowed to pull Lisaveta from the room unimpeded.

Stiff-armed, he pushed the terrace door open, dragging her through without ceremony onto the flagstone terrace overlooking the manicured grounds falling away to the shoreline. The evening was cool, the
breeze off
the Baltic harboring the first faint touches of fall, and Lisaveta shivered at the sudden contrast to the heated ballroom. Walking no more than a few paces from the opened door, a distance just barely outside the range of direct illumination from the lighted entry, Stefan pushed her back against the ivy-covered stucco and, bending down, kissed her.

I
t wasn't a kiss of welcome or greeting or even pleasure; it was distinctly a kiss of possession, as if the harsh pressure of his mouth somehow indelibly acknowledged ownership. Struggling against his strength the moment she realized his intentions, she protested verbally as well as physically to his brutal kiss.

"You're drunk," she remonstrated, turning her mouth away with effort, shoving uselessly against the solid muscle of his chest, her hands small in contrast to his massiveness.

"I haven't had a drink in five days,
dushka,"
he replied, his voice a growl, the endearment an epithet in tone, his arms tightening around her. He'd been traveling day and night for five days while she'd been smiling her special smile and offering more no doubt to every fawning man in Saint Petersburg. He knew what she could
offer,
he knew what her smile prefaced. He had been told she was everyone's darling and jealousy ate at his reason. His lips brushed over her cheek, his lower body pressed into her, and intent on being the next recipient of the Golden Countess's favors, he said, "Relax, darling, this won't take much of your time."

Those were not words of love or the sentiments of a lovesick swain, and while he'd come and taken her away, his intent appeared wholly without feeling. "Take me back inside, Stefan, damn you," Lisaveta whispered hotly. His mouth was millimeters from hers, and her body was pressed against the ivy wall with such force she could feel the buttons of his jacket imprinted into her flesh.

His soft laugh was unpleasant, his breath warm on her mouth. "Do your
new
lovers take orders?" He hadn't moved and the weight of his body was solid and resistant.

"Does your fiancée?" she snapped, ignoring the fact she was powerless against him, too angry at his seizure, rude purpose and insinuation to consider her precarious position.

His head lifted abruptly and his eyes in the moonlight darkness gleamed like Fire. "Yes, as a matter of fact," he said very softly, his mouth curled in derision.
"Your turn."

"Then so do my lovers." She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing she'd refused all the men because they hadn't measured up to him.

His eyes narrowed at her confident tone, a cold fury overwhelming him. "I've heard," he said in a taut low whisper, "you're much in demand."
So all the rumors were true.
She'd been entertaining herself with a variety of lovers since she'd arrived in Saint Petersburg. Loris and Dmitri and Kadar and Tamada had all been telling the truth. How many lovers had she had?
he
hotly thought. He could almost feel his temper as a palpable heat rising in his body—or was it lust… or both? He knew too well how eager and erotic the Countess's style of entertainment was and knew she had the spontaneity and energy to delight a great number of lovers.

He wanted to punish her for her bewitching ways, and then call out and kill each man she'd slept with. In an earlier era he may have done that without a second thought. But one didn't publicly beat women any longer or lock them away in nunneries, and duels were, at least in theory, uncivilized.

He was, however, feeling uncivilized and savagely angry. He was, in fact, very near to losing control, so Lisaveta's answering words were exactly wrong.

"You taught me well," she said, her voice snide and too sweet and taunting.

It wasn't what he cared to hear. He would have preferred all the gossip to have been false; he would have preferred finding her asleep in her bed instead of at a ball, or discovering her quietly studying in some isolated library or embroidering, if women actually did that, or performing any number of other safe, innocuous, acceptable feminine pursuits. He would have preferred anything but her last reply. A strange wildness overcame him, as if he were an adolescent again, totally without restraint.

"Let's see then," he murmured, his chill voice matching the breeze off the Baltic, "if you remember everything I taught you." His hands moved up her back as he finished speaking and came to rest on her shoulder, his fingers sliding under the neckline of her gown in a small gesture of possession.

"Don't you
dare.
" Her own fury and self-determination reverberated through her heated words. Her eyes shone like golden flame.

He stood, his hands lightly cupping her bare shoulders, his touch gentle as though his intentions were benign, as though her fury were irrelevant. "Darling, don't be naive. I attack redoubts bristling with artillery and enemy. Surely—" his fingertips traced the curve of one shoulder, an incongruously delicate juxtaposition to his heated words "—you don't think one small woman can stop me." His voice was very low, unhurried,
almost
tranquil.

"I'll scream," she challenged. Her hands were still caught against his chest, his body still curtailing her freedom.

"Perhaps later," he replied casually, his palm already sliding up the slender column of her neck. "You always scream," he softly murmured, "at the end." The tip of his finger gently tapped the yellow diamond pendant swinging from her ear. "I'm glad you like the earrings."

"You can't do this, Stefan," she warned. "Someone could walk out any moment." Her voice was more contained than her emotions with Stefan's aroused body pressing into her flesh. "Just release me now and you can go about your business." She tried to keep her tone reasonable and moderate.

"But
you're
my business." His answer was a teasing murmur, his hands drifting down her shoulders once again, stopping to test the resistance of the gold lace ruffle just below the curve of her shoulder.

"You came all the way to Saint Petersburg to see me?" Her query was laced with doubt and a dizzying curiosity and suspicion, too.

"Of course."
His reply was so blatantly nonchalant it resisted belief. "And now," he said, the hush of his voice as languorous as his half-lidded eyes, "I'd like to
see
you."

"Stefan, be sensible," Lisaveta pleaded, suddenly realizing he was fully intent on satisfying his passion, here, now, within sight and sound of the ballroom. "Please…"

"I remember," he said with a faint smile, "you always pleaded—" his voice dropped to a whisper "—and were impatient."

His tone and words kindled heated memory and Lisaveta fought against the images evoked. She would not be seduced by him; she wouldn't be dragged from a ballroom with abrupt and staggering discourtesy and then begin to melt because his deep low voice was reminding her of endless hours of shared rapture and, yes, of her impatience and the reasons for it. Taking a breath to steady her tremulous feelings, she forced her mind away from those arousing memories.

"Stefan," she implored, not certain she could curtail his full intent, "at least move away from the vicinity of the door, I beg you."

He didn't pretend not to understand. Her voice and inflection were intense. Glancing briefly at the opened doorway no more than three feet away, he said, "Darling, you've taken on new refinements in Saint Petersburg." His words were sardonic and challenging, as if he wanted further concessions from her. "What will you do if I move?"

She didn't answer for a moment, provoked by his suggestion she had to somehow please him first. "Why must I
do
something to keep you from being pigheaded?"

He shrugged. "I thought we were negotiating for a new venue."

"A new venue?"
Although she spoke in a whisper, the violence of her feelings was evident. "Is that what you call rape now?"

His lashes dropped fractionally in ironic reply.
"Really, sweetheart, why all the ruffled outrage?
It's not as though my wanting you will harm you in any way."

"This spectacle—should someone walk out of the ballroom—notwithstanding!" she fiercely replied.

He sighed as though her stinging response required at least one reasonable party. "Very well," he said, not in explanation but in magnanimity, "we'll move." And lifting her into his arms, he walked with her across the terrace and down the three wide stairs to the lawn below. "Is this better?" he inquired politely, as if the location of his assault on her were the only point in question.

Lisaveta lay rigid in his arms, refusing to touch him, and gazed around, her golden eyes incredulous. Stefan was standing at the base of the stone stairs directly in line with the ballroom door, in the middle of a great open expanse of lawn, the moon bright overhead. "No," she indignantly retorted, "this is
not
better!" She bit off the words as if they were poison.

He turned so they faced the villa, kicking the train of her gown out of his way. "You decide then," he said with no more emotion than if they were discussing the merits of lavender versus yellow kid gloves as a fashion accessory.

"Why are we doing this?" Lisaveta breathed, dismay vibrating in every hushed syllable.

Stefan looked down at her for a moment and his face in shadow held a menacing quality. "I know why
I'm
doing this," he said, his intention absolutely plain in his simple declaration, "and at the risk of further offending you, I don't really care why you are or aren't. I hope that's not too blunt."

It was another galaxy beyond blunt. "In that case, my decision is irrelevant," Lisaveta quietly said.

He didn't answer because the substance of his reply was clearly understood, and he thought for a moment how powerful jealousy was. He'd never been this rude to a woman before. In fact, he prided himself on his charm with the opposite sex. But then, he'd never been barraged by such overwhelming frustration before, and the force of his emotions was driving him. He felt it unkind to liken this to war, but the simile came prominently to mind. Lisaveta was the redoubt he wanted and he intended to triumph in his assault. She was the eternal enticing female who bewitched him like Circe or Venus, and he coveted her—at Kars, on his ride to the railhead at Vladikavkaz, on his train journey north and now, here, this instant.

Moving a few feet from where he stood, he set Lisaveta on her feet within the shadow of the terrace wall and without speaking slid the lace ruffles off her shoulders, forcing the bodice of her gown downward over the fullness of her breasts until they were exposed, pale white and enticing in the moonlight.

She stood rigid beneath his hands, knowing resistance would be useless, hating him at that moment for his callous indifference but feeling also an unnerving familiarity to the touch of his hands.