Storm Winds

Praise for the bestselling novels of
IRIS JOHANSEN

FINAL TARGET

THE SEARCH

THE KILLING GAME

THE FACE OF DECEPTION

AND THEN YOU DIE

Books by Iris Johansen

And the Desert Blooms
The Treasure
Touch the Horizon
Golden Valkyrie
Capture the Rainbow
A Summer Smile
Stormy Vows/Tempest at Sea
Stalemate
An Unexpected Song
Killer Dreams
On the Run
Countdown
Blind Alley
Firestorm
Fatal Tide
Dead Aim
No One to Trust
Body of Lies
Final Target
The Search
The Killing Game
The Face of Deception
And Then You Die
Long After Midnight
The Ugly Duckling
Lion’s Bride
Dark Rider
Midnight Warrior
The Beloved Scoundrel
The Magnificent Rogue
The Tiger Prince
Last Bridge Home
The Golden Barbarian
Reap the Wind
Storm Winds
The Wind Dancer

T
he emerald eyes of the golden horse looked down at her, as if he knew her every hope, her every sorrow, Juliette thought. Lips parted in a smile of fierce joy, filigree wings folded back against his body, the Pegasus stood on a tall marble pedestal in the gallery, deserted now. Juliette could hear the tinkling music of a clavichord and women singing, but she paid no attention to anything except the beautiful golden horse.

She had caught glimpses of herself in the seventeen mirrors gracing the long gallery as she’d dashed moments ago to the sheltering presence of the Pegasus. How helpless and stupid she looked with tears running down her face, she thought.

She hated to cry as much as she hated to feel helpless. Marguerite, her nurse, liked to see her cry, Juliette had realized recently. When
the old woman goaded and tormented until she succeeded in making her break down and weep, she seemed to Juliette to puff up with satisfaction as if those childish tears somehow watered and nourished her. Someday, Juliette vowed, when she was a woman grown like her mother and Marguerite, she would never let anyone see her this helpless or frightened.

She ducked behind the tall pedestal, gathering her nightgown close to her shivering body and crouched on the floor, trying to hide in the shadows. Her breath coming in harsh sobs, she cradled a precious brown clay pot against her chest. She prayed Marguerite wouldn’t find her and soon would stop searching. Then she would run into the garden and find a safe hiding place for the pot in the vast beds of flowers.

She could see only a narrow slice of the long hall glittering with mirrors, the candles shimmering starlike in crystal chandeliers. Juliette had eluded Marguerite in the corridors below, but an army of footmen and at least three Swiss guards would be able to set her nurse on the right path if she stopped to inquire. She peeped cautiously around the pedestal and sighed with relief.

No Marguerite.

“I tell you I
did
see something, Axel.” A woman’s light voice, very close, faintly impatient. “I looked up from the clavichord and I saw … I don’t know … something.”

Juliette tensed, pressing back against the wall and holding her breath.

“I would not think of arguing with you.” A man’s amused voice. “I’m sure those blue eyes are as keen as they are beautiful. Perhaps it was a servant.”

“No, it was much closer to the floor.”

“A pup? God knows your court seems to abound with them and none of them worth a franc in the hunting field.”

A pair of white satin shoes, diamond buckles gleaming in the candlelight, appeared in Juliette’s line of vision. Her gaze traveled from the gleaming buckles to the hem of enormously wide azure satin skirts decorated with square-cut sapphires set in circlets of violets.

“It was just a glimpse, but I know—Well, what have we here?”

Sparkling blue eyes peered down into the shadows at her. The lady knelt in a flurry of satin skirts. “Here’s your puppy, Axel. It’s a child.”

Wild despair tore through Juliette. It was clear she had been found by a lady of the court. The rich gown and stylish white wig were so like her mother’s. This woman would be bound to find her mother, Juliette thought desperately. She braced herself, the muscles of her calves tensing to spring, her hands clutching the clay pot so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“A very small child.” The lady reached forward and gently touched Juliette’s wet cheek. “What are you doing here,
ma petite
? It’s almost midnight and little girls should be in bed.”

Juliette drew back, huddling against the wall.

“Don’t be frightened.” The lady drew closer. “I have a little girl too. My Marie Thérèse is only a year old, but later perhaps you and she could play together when …” The words trailed off as the lady looked down at her damp fingertips that had caressed Juliette’s cheek. “Mother of God, there’s blood on my fingers, Axel. The child’s hurt. Give me your handkerchief.”

“Bring her out and let’s have a look at her.” The man came into view, tall, handsomely dressed in a brilliant emerald-green coat. He handed the lady a spotless lace-trimmed handkerchief and knelt beside her.

“Come out,
ma petite.”
The lady held out her arms to Juliette. “No one is going to hurt you.”

Hurt? Juliette didn’t care about the pain. She was used to pain and it was nothing compared to the disaster facing her now.

“What’s your name?” The lady’s hand gently pushed back the riotous dark curls from Juliette’s forehead. The touch was so tender Juliette wanted to lean into it.

“Juliette,” she whispered.

“A pretty name for a pretty little girl.”

“I’m not pretty.”

“No?”

“My nose turns up and my mouth is too big.”

“Well, I think you’re pretty. You have exquisite skin and lovely brown eyes. You are such a big girl, Juliette.”

“Almost seven.”

“A great age.” The lady dabbed at Juliette’s lip with the handkerchief. “Your lip is bleeding. Did someone hurt you?”

Juliette looked away. “No, I fell against the door.”

“What door?”

“I … don’t remember.” Juliette had learned a long time before that all bruises and cuts must be explained away in this fashion. Why was the lady so interested in her? In Juliette’s experience, adults accepted any untruth that made them most comfortable.

“Never mind.” The lady held out her arms again. “Won’t you come out from behind the Wind Dancer and let me hold you? I like children. Nothing will happen to you, I promise.”

The lady’s arms were as white and plump and well-formed as those on the statues of the goddesses in the garden, although they were not as beautiful as the golden wings of the Pegasus, Juliette thought. Suddenly, though, she was drawn to those open arms as she had been drawn to the statue the lady had called the Wind Dancer.

She inched out of the shadows.

“That’s right.” The lady drew Juliette into her embrace. The scent of violets, roses, and perfumed powder surrounded Juliette. Her mother sometimes smelled of violets, Juliette thought wistfully. If she closed her eyes, perhaps she could pretend this lady holding her with such tenderness was her mother. She would run away soon but it would do no harm to stay for just another moment.

“What a sweet, shy child you are.”

Juliette knew she was not a sweet child. Marguerite always called her an obstinate spawn of the devil. The lady would find out her mistake soon enough and push Juliette away. If her own mother considered her too wicked to be pleasing, she would not be able to deceive a stranger for any length of time.