Paradise Burning (10 page)

Karim did not see the laundry. He did
not even look at the woman except to propel her inside his room,
holding her fast until the door was closed, locked, the ancient
sliding bolt shot home. He wouldn’t have noticed what she was
wearing, except that the shorts, T-top, bra, and panties took
longer to strip away than the caftans she usually wore. He did not
bother to remove his shirt, but took the time to remove his khaki
trousers and alligator shoes only because, even with the door
locked and bolted, he was too experienced, too
wary
, to be caught with his trousers around his
ankles.

When he plunged into her, he knew he hurt
her. But there wasn’t so much as a whimper. Just silent
resignation, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched tightly at her
side. He smothered his face in the softness of her breasts, felt
satisfaction at her involuntary squirm as his teeth closed around
one firm pink nipple. And then he thought no more. Pounding out his
frustration, anger, horror and shame on the one bright spot in his
life. The person he most needed. And least wanted to hurt.

His convulsions were as frenzied as his
thoughts, as if catching him before he was ready. Before he could
understand why he was here, doing what he was doing with bright
sunlight pouring through the window in a house full of people just
rising, in early afternoon, to greet another day.

He lay heavily on her, knowing he was a
burden, but unwilling to move. A hand threaded itself through his
dark curls, tugged softly, then slid down to cup a high cheekbone
on one side of his fierce proud face.

Nadya understood. He was forgiven.

Not that it mattered.

He rolled toward the side of the bed nearest
the wall. He would be better now. Pain seared away, the man he once
was would return. For a while. He knew it was not right, but was it
not the way of the world? Women were put on earth to be useful. To
be used. It was enough. He needed nothing more.

Without so much as a glance in his direction,
Nadya rose, dressed, and left, softly closing the door behind her.
In the hall she bent down, retrieved the freshly laundered
clothing, picked up the basket and headed back toward the open
roofed area at the side of the house where the washer and dryer
stood.

She would have to do it over. But she would
not complain. Washers and dryers were a miracle. More like
delightful toys than a chore.

As she was a toy to Karim, who was a very bad
man. Yet somehow she could not hate him. Nadya Semyonova flipped
her long blond hair back over her shoulders and began to pile the
clothes back into the washing machine.

Fawn wasn’t sure why she was standing
on the sidewalk in the hot Florida sun, leaning on the doorbell of
some second-floor walk-up. Except the man who’d come to the club
had given her a fifty dollar tip along with the note he tucked into
the elastic above the scrap of sequined fabric that was all she was
wearing at the time. And he’d looked at her without a hint of the
lust that filled other men’s eyes. Besides . . . two fifty was a
hunk of money. And she needed a pile of it. Money so she could stay
off the street. And as far away from home as possible. Money so she
could travel. Not Vegas or L.A., where the other girls dreamed of
going, but maybe Paris or Rome or the Riviera. Some place
real
far away. There were only two
things Fawn was sure of. She didn’t want to be a thousand dollar
stripper any more than a thousand dollar whore. And she was never
going home. She didn’t care what the pastor used to preach, home
was where hell was.

Compared to home, the club was heaven. More
family than she’d ever had before. If Max hadn’t fudged the age
requirements when she’d first started dancing, she’d probably be
dead by now. But she’d made it to eighteen, and now she was legit.
All she had to do was peel down to the least little bit the law
would allow—and sometimes less—and let a lot of guys pop their
eyeballs at what she’d got. No hands allowed. Except for tips. Fawn
smiled. There were a lot of tips. And Max made sure his bouncers
never let an overly eager hand stray. Unless the girls wanted them
to. But that had to be private, or at least discreet. Fawn didn’t
do private or discreet. She was finished with men the day she left
home.

She pulled open the door to reveal a set of
worn wooden stairs, a banister, and not a sign of life. Clutching
her black leather purse with the .22 Max had given her, she began
to climb. If there was a bunch of johns up there ready to jump her,
she was prepared to use it. She was never, ever, going to be used
by a man again. But the woman who opened the door was so far from
what Fawn expected that apprehension faded into hot embarrassment.
She must of got the wrong address.

“
It’s okay,” Mandy said, easily reading
the young woman’s flaming face. “This is the right place. See,
there’s Peter over there, and a couple of other girls. We
do
just want to talk to you. And
whatever money Peter promised you, that’s what you’ll get. And
nothing else but lunch.”

Compared to this sprite of girl who said her
name was Fawn, Mandy felt like a giant. An old giant. An old clumsy
giant. The dancer was at least half a foot shorter than herself and
couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds. Her pale, piquant face was
framed by a mass of long brown hair that fell in waves down her
slender back. Fawn’s appeal was universal. Every man would either
want to protect her, cherish her, or break her. Mandy’s ego, never
very strong unless she was at a keyboard, slipped another
notch.

Somehow they got through lunch on the
strength of an impressive menu—steak, shrimp, and asparagus
hollandaise. Peter was fulfilling his promises, Mandy noted, and
establishing rapport like a diplomat about to negotiate a
particularly delicate treaty. Their talk was confined to classic,
if innocuous, chitchat like
where were you
born
and
how long have you
lived in Manatee Bay
.

They were nearly finished with the main
course when Peter took advantage of a pause in the conversation.
“Ladies, I’d like to say how much I appreciate your taking a chance
on coming here today. I swear to you this is no sting. I am who I
say I am.” Peter bent down to retrieve several items from his
briefcase, which was on the floor beside his chair. “I’m going to
pass around copies of the two books I’ve written . . . and my
passport. You’ll find my picture on all three.”

There was a general murmur of approval as
Peter’s full-color—and definitely swashbuckling—photo circulated
among the three women. This was the confirmation they’d all needed.
Peter Pennington was legit.

“
Remarkable,” Jade drawled, along with
a lingering glance at the genuine original from under the canopy of
her luxuriant artificial lashes. “Even your passport photo looks
good.”

Peter grinned his appreciation. “Okay,” he
declared, “I’m going to try to explain what we’re doing here.
Please go right ahead and finish your lunch while I talk.”
Dutifully, all four women returned to their food. “I’ve spent a lot
of time traveling around the world, and I’ve seen things that were
pretty ugly. Fortunately, the books I just showed you were
successful enough that my publisher said he was willing to take a
chance on my writing about something real.”

Mandy leaned back in her chair, noting with
satisfaction that even Jade wasn’t bothering to look bored.

“
What I’m writing about,” Peter
continued, “is modern-day slavery. Everything from migrant workers
to forced prostitution. Mostly, though, I’m writing about women who
never intended to be involved in sex work, and most certainly not
to be sold into slavery. Sometimes, these are women who were just
looking for a better job, or simply women and children who set out
for the market or for school and never came home. Or sometimes a
woman may feel she has no other choice.

“
I was hoping,” Peter added, watching
each girl’s reaction carefully, “that one or more of you might have
had some experience with that.”

Jaws had stopped moving. Forks rested
on plates or were clutched in frozen fingers. Surprise, anger, but
not a sound until Delilah breathed a long, heartfelt, “Shee-it, you
mean people jes git
taken
?”

“
That’s exactly what I mean,” Peter
said, as if Delilah were a student who had done all her homework
and just gone to the top of the class. “Trafficking in women and
children used to be called white slavery to distinguish it from the
early African slave trade, but the women and children being
kidnapped these days are every race and color, so it’s more
accurate to call it sexual slavery or forced
prostitution.”

“
What about if it happens at home?”
Fawn’s voice was soft, her blue eyes huge.

“
Sexual slavery isn’t something that
just happens in foreign countries, Fawn,” Peter replied gently. “It
happens here too.”

He held up his hand, regarding the four
solemn faces around him. “Sorry, ladies, I didn’t mean to spoil
lunch. “We’ll talk later. Just think about what I said, okay?”

By the time key lime pie had been washed down
with mocha almond coffee, Mandy was optimistic about the success of
the interviews. The girls had been touched by what Peter said, of
that she was certain. No matter how good or bad their own
situations, they had caught a glimpse of something worse. She
sensed a spark of sisterhood, of feminine outrage. The air quivered
with anticipation as they moved back into the living area of the
large room.

When they were settled, Peter laid his
digital recorder on the coffee table and switched it on, making
sure each girl saw what he was doing. “Okay?” he asked.

A shrug, a nod, the wave of a hand, but no
protests. Good.

“
Jade, you were the first to arrive, so
you can start us off, if you don’t mind. Did you ever feel forced
into doing what you’re doing?”

“
Not now I don’t.” Jade twisted a lock
of pale blond hair in her slim, perfectly manicured fingers. “At
first I was pretty hot about what you said. Forced? Who, me? I do
it for money. I was never forced in my life. And then I remembered
a few things.” The confident beauty from the Escort Service had
been replaced by a thoughtful young woman from the suburbs, a wife
and mother.

“
My mother was into beauty pageants,”
Jade said. “I can’t remember a time I wasn’t being made up, dressed
up, and sent out on stage with a lot of people staring at me. I was
in fourth grade before I realized every little girl didn’t live
that way.” The blond beauty shrugged. “By the time I was seventeen,
I’d done it all. There’d even been a hush-hush abortion. I had only
two months to get my figure back in shape for Miss Manatee Bay.
That’s what you do before competing for Miss Florida and then Miss
America,” she explained.

“
I didn’t make it that year, but when I
was nineteen I got to go to Miami for Miss Florida. Mom was fit to
be tied when I lost. My whole life, that’s all she’d wanted—for me
to be Miss America. And I blew it. So, yeah, I guess you could say
I was forced. There never was time to learn how to do anything
except be pretty. And attract men. And since I was real good at
that . . .” Jade’s voice trailed away.

Mandy felt a surge of compassion for this
stunning young woman, but she couldn’t ignore her role as
researcher. “Does your husband know what you do?”

“
God, no!” Jade groaned. “He’d kill
me.”

“
Aren’t you risking a lot?” Mandy was
genuinely puzzled.

“
He thinks I’ve got a part-time job,
and I put most of the money in a mutual fund he doesn’t know a
thing about. I need that money,” Jade insisted. “My girls are going
to college, and they aren’t ever going near a beauty
pageant.”

“
And when your husband wonders where
the college fund came from?”

Jade blanched. “Even if he kills me,” she
vowed, “my kids are going to college.”

“
Guess you think you’re one of them
martyrs, huh?” Delilah taunted. “Well, let me tell you, girl, you
had it all. I mean,
all
. And
you blew it. Your ma tell you to go with men? I don’t guess she did
‘cuz that’d ruin her plans. She jes’ wanted you t’be famous and
have lots of money. Maybe get a job as an actress or marry some
rich guy who thinks he deserves one o’ them trophy wives. Well,
shit, girl, what’s wrong with that? I was the oldest of five, and
my ma had me out on the streets ‘helpin’ out’ by the time I was
twelve. And like I already said, a girl can’t read, what else she
gon’ do? So I stuck all those johns who like ‘em young for
everythin’ I c’d git. I scored crack and pills to keep goin’, gave
the cops freebies so’s they’d go chase someone mo’ a danger to
so-ci-e-ty than me.”

Fists clenched in her lap, Delilah glared at
Jade. While she talked, she had leaned forward in her chair, almost
as low as a jockey coming down the homestretch. Now, she subsided
back into the upholstery, suddenly all too aware of the silence
around her.

“
I’m sorry,” Peter mumbled as Mandy
burst out, “Your local librarian can find somebody to help you
learn to read.”

“
Ain’t no way.” Delilah shook her head.
“School tried, they surely did. Warn’t their fault. I’m jes’ dumb.
And now with all the drugs I’ve took . . . Ain’t possible. It truly
ain’t.”

“
Your problem could be dyslexia,” Peter
said, “and the experts know a lot more about how to deal with it
than they used to. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to put you in touch
with someone who might be able to help. Nobody should have to go
through life not being able to read.”