Winds of the Storm (13 page)

“Thank you, Aristide,” Archer said coolly.

“You're welcome,” he replied, his tone equally cool. He then bowed towards Zahra. “If you wish anything else, madame, let me know.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Upon shooting Archer a superior look, he left them alone.

“How long has he worked for you?”

“Too long.” Archer knew that what he was feeling was jealousy. He'd never been prone to it in his life, yet for some reason Aristide's entrance and conversation with Domino had rubbed him wrong.
What in the world am I doing feeling possessive over a known whore?
She was beautiful and intriguing, but she was a soiled dove. No man in his
right mind would attempt to capture the heart of such a woman. But watching her fill her plate with Aristide's delights, Archer did want to make love to her, if only to melt the barrier she seemed to visibly wear between herself and mere male mortals like himself.

Zahra could feel his intent, could see it in his eyes. He wanted her and was not ashamed. She wondered how many women succumbed after the first charming volley of shots and guessed most did. Zahra was not most women, however.

Archer had come to that same conclusion. He was not accustomed to a woman who did not jump into his arms when invited. His name, good looks, and wealth had always been more than enough, but not with Domino. In a way, the challenge she presented was exhilarating. He'd been with Lynette for so long he'd all but forgotten the thrill of the chase. “Do you think men are easily led?”

She looked up from her plate. “Under what circumstances?”

“The circumstances of a beautiful woman.”

Zahra met his eyes and searched them for his intent. “I don't believe she has to be beautiful, but she does have to be interesting. If she is, she can lead a man wherever she wishes him to go. Was your Lynette interesting?”

“Only if new gowns or hats or jewelry are involved.”

Her smile formed beneath her mask. “Why did you ask the question?”

“Just curious about how you would respond.”

“And how do you respond?”

“That men are easily led. Take me, for instance. No offense intended, but a man like me shouldn't be interested in a woman like you.”

“Most men like you are always interested in women like myself, but what they fail to see is this is my
job,
it isn't necessarily who I am. People tend to meld the two and fail to realize that distinction.”

Archer was fascinated.

Zahra continued, “Just because women whore doesn't mean they don't have hopes or dreams or desires of their own. There is little glamour in taking strange men into your bed. Most women in this life barely make enough to live on.”

“And that's why I wish to know who you are. I've already made that distinction. Who is the real Domino? What are her dreams, her personal desires?”

“The answers to those questions will be for the man who earns the right to hear them. Until then…”

Archer observed her over his stemmed crystal and raised it to her in admiration.

Zahra met the silent tribute with an almost imperceptible inclination of her head, after which they returned to their meals.

But Zahra found herself watching him; his hands, his mouth, the sure way his fingers curled around the stem of his wine goblet. How many women had those hands caressed? He was as golden as an idol, and over his lifetime had probably had more worshippers than Baal. She had no intentions of becoming a devotee, but she could not deny his overwhelming male aura. It began
with the way he looked at you; so sensual, so male, and ended…Unbidden, the statue of Adam and Eve suddenly filled her mind; that's how it would end, she reminded herself, then steered her thoughts to safer waters.

Archer asked her, “What pleases you in a man?”

She didn't hesitate. “Intelligence, honesty.”

“Not fortune? Not looks?”

“Intelligence and honesty.” She turned the tables then by asking him, “What pleases you in a woman?”

“Challenge.”

His tone and powerful gaze through the flames opened her in a way she'd never experienced before donning the role of Domino. In the lengthening silence, a pulse beat at her throat and her breathing seemed to be both fast and slow.

“I want to make love to you in a hundred ways, fill you, kiss you…”

Her breath stopped and her nipples hardened.

“Ride you and let you ride me,” he whispered boldly. “One night, Domino. This night.”

Eyes closed, Zahra fought to bring her shaken body under control, but he was slowly rising to his feet, and her heart began to pound.

Standing by her chair, he extended a hand, and there in the shadows, she looked up and saw unbridled desire in his eyes. Entranced, she took the hand and slowly stood to meet him.

For a long moment, they stood a breath apart and Zahra could feel the air thickening and crackling like the prelude to a lightning storm. Then, ever so slowly, his fingers moved to her lips,
mapping the outline, lingering over the shape, the curves, the way they felt as they parted with passion. Her eyes slid closed and the touch wandered lower, over her jaw, then down her trembling throat. He lightly grazed the tip of his finger horizontally across the base of her collarbone, then leaned in and gently placed his first kiss there.

Zahra's knees dissolved, and she sucked in a shaky breath. He pressed another kiss there, teasing the nock with just the tip of his tongue before moving his kisses up to her ear. “Now is the time to say no if you don't wish for me to continue…I've never forced a woman…”

But all the while his hands were roaming over her soft curves, and it took all Zahra had to remain standing and not melt into a puddle on his beautiful blue rug. Her nipples hardened under his masterful teasing, and all she could do was implore herself to breathe.

She knew she shouldn't want this; it was not what she'd come here to do. But his hands were so sure, his fleeting kisses on her neck and the edge of her jaw were so filled with fire that she, who had never been pierced by passion before, gave in and let herself feel.

When she trailed her fingers down the solid set of his jaw, and then sensually explored the shape of his mouth, Archer sensed her acquiescence, and his manhood flared. He took one of her fingers into his mouth and boldly sucked the tapered tip. Her eyes closed, and he placed his finger in her mouth, and she sucked him in heated response. His blood fired. Withdrawing his finger, he circled the dampness down her throat, over the
silken flesh above her low-cut gown, then plied her berried breasts with touches that made her croon softly.

He continued his fondling. He watched her masked face in the flickering candlelight fall back, and he enjoyed knowing that he was the man bringing her pleasure. The front of her dress was tied closed with a ribbon that opened easily. The halves melted away and the black French corset beneath filled his eyes. She was cinched so tightly the tops of her lush breasts were presented with a lusciousness he could not resist. Trailing kisses across the enticing mounds, he worked one breast free and sucked until she gasped and moaned. Wanting more, he worked his tongue around the straining bud, while his hand slid up her thighs, squeezing and savoring her tempting behind. The rustle of silk and their breathing were the only sounds in the low-lit room. Still pleasuring her breasts, he slid her gown this way and that over her limbs, her hips and then in between her thighs with a brazenness that made her part her legs so she could feel more.

By now, Zahra was on fire everywhere, and he fed that heat with his mouth and his knowing hands. When he raised her gown, she didn't protest but stood there in her black clockwork stockings and garters and let him tease her through the opening in her white silk drawers.

The moment he touched her damp, swollen flesh, she climaxed with a raw scream. Twisting, she rode out
la petite mort
while he whispered in French the many ways he planned to pleasure her next.

Without a word, he untied her drawers, eased them from her shaking legs, then picked her up. Crossing the room with long, sure strides, he carried her out of the dining room and down the hall to his bedroom.

A
rcher gently placed her on the bed, then freed the buttons on his shirt. The moonlight streaming through the windows illuminated her so seductively that he was forced to close his eyes and take in a deep breath to forestall coming right there and then. Her dark-nippled breasts, bared by the disheveled gown and corset, coupled with his thoughts of the damp gate waiting beneath all that silk aroused him to such a fevered pitch that he wanted to fall on her like an untried youth, but he held. His skills in pleasuring a woman were legendary, and he planned to treat her to that expertise until neither of them could draw breath. She'd undoubtedly been with innumerable men innumerable times. The only way for Archer to be remembered above all others was to give her as much pleasure as one night could hold. With that in mind, he tossed his shirt aside.
Wearing only his trousers, he joined her on his big four-poster bed.

As the mattress gave beneath his weight, she welcomed him by cupping his cheek. Kneeling next to her, he turned her hand to his lips, placed a soft kiss in the center, then guided her hand to the root of his pleasure. He felt her hesitate for a moment, as if she'd never offered such a caress before, and it increased his fervor. He loved playing games in bed, and if she wanted to act the role of a woman with little experience, the pleasure would be all his. “Grasp me,
chérie,
” he instructed in a passion-gruff voice. “Feel what touching you has done….”

Rather than let him know she'd never done this before, Zahra took hold of a man for the first time in her life and felt the hard promise burn her palm through the soft wool. She almost pulled away, but she held as he whispered, “You play the innocent well, Domino. Shall I teach you love?”

She realized he thought her reticence an act. Her inexperience would not be questioned, which gave her a modicum of relief, so embracing her role, she responded with a truthful, “Yes,
monsieur.
Teach me all….”

In response to the black velvet voice, Archer's manhood increased, and he placed his hand gently atop hers. “Like this…” he husked out and slowly began to guide her in the way he wished.

Blood pounding, he threw back his head to savor the way her hand was now moving with passionate confidence. Every cell in his body wanted to climax, but he forced himself away. “You learn quickly,
ma chérie,
” he told her, his eyes glittering
in the moonlight. Needing to touch her again, he made her nipples rise to his fingers' sweet command, then dropped his head to taste them.

Still wearing her mask, Zahra braced herself with her arms and leaned back. She didn't know where to settle her mind. Should it be on the hot mouth making her nipples plead, or the hand moving sensually up and down her leg beneath her gown? Each was filled with its own vivid sensations and she was in no frame of mind to choose, so she gave up and just soared.

Then his big hands were sliding the gown up her legs, exposing them to his hot eyes, the silence, and the moonlight. He teased a finger over the small red rose centering the garter holding up her stockings, then over the trembling bare skin above. Worshipping caresses moved over her limbs, then up the insides of her thighs; mapping, exploring, tempting. When his fingers found her this time, she groaned, and her legs parted shamelessly.

For Archer there was something wickedly decadent about pleasuring a woman in a gown. The feel and the sight of her nakedness against the yards of rucked-up silk made him even harder. Bending, he placed a kiss against the warm brown flesh of her inner thigh, and when she jumped as if surprised, he smiled. With a finger he slowly teased the passion-wet core, then asked her softly, “Have you never had a man pay you tribute,
ma chérie?
”

His hands were moving so marvelously and erotically over her that Zahra, who had no idea
what he was asking her, found it hard to respond, but finally she whispered, “No.”

“Good…” he said, making her hips respond to the soft circles he was drawing.

When his tongue tasted her, she threw her head back, having never received this before, and it was glorious to behold. As he boldly parted her, then teased and lingered, her core pulsed hotly. His kisses were so scandalous, his fingers so carnal, that it didn't take long for her body to break under the passionate conquering, and her shuddering cries of
la petite mort
pierced the silence.

Only then did Archer remove the rest of his clothing. Watching her and touching her as she lay there savoring the fading throes of her orgasm aroused him so much that he knew if he didn't have her now, he'd spill his seed like an adolescent. Tracing her parted mouth, he bent to reacquaint himself with her kiss-dampened nipples, then pulled her atop him.

Zahra gasped as he slowly filled her. He was big. His earlier preparations had let her accept him without pain, but it was the heat he set off inside that made her groan with pleasure. He reached up to the ties of her mask, and she quickly stayed his hands with hers. “No,” she whispered.

For a long moment they stared at each other in the moonlight, then he said finally, softly, “Okay, my mysterious
chérie.
I will let you keep your secrets…for now.”

Running a palm over her bared breasts, he eased her forward so he could make sure her nipples were as hard as he, then he lowered his hands
to her hips. He began to tease her with a soft, enticing rhythm that tempted her body to join in. No, Zahra had never made love this way, but an age-old awareness of how to respond awakened within, claiming her, fueling her. She rose and fell to the impaling bliss and let him guide her as he would. Soon, they were in the winds of the storm, his rhythm hard, faster. Then they were straining for all they were worth and Zahra answered with a hard and fast rhythm all her own. Her scream of completion filled the moonlit room and was followed by his own shouts of glory. Needing to brand the moment in his mind and hers too, he guided her hips in a frenetic pace and thrusted until she screamed again.

In the silent aftermath, the still impaled Zahra lay bonelessly on his chest with his arms wrapped around her. She could hear his heart pounding beneath her ear and feel his manhood throbbing dully inside her. Instinctively, her inner muscles answered with a series of soft contractions that made him place his hands low on her bare hips so he could give her a few more growling thrusts, then he went still. Never wanting to move ever again, Zahra lay there, sated, tired, and amazed by the wildness of her pleasure. Raising her head, she looked down into his face and saw that he was smiling. She asked, “Am I to assume you are pleased?”

“Oh, yes,” he responded, slowly tracing her mouth, “but the more important question is, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because you are made for pleasure.”

Somewhere in the dark interior of his house, a clock chimed the time. “I must go,” she said. The sadness she felt surprised her, but then again, maybe it didn't. This night would undoubtedly haunt her for the rest of her days, and truthfully, she didn't want it to end. But being with him left her vulnerable. Under the mesmerizing spell of his lovemaking, she could easily imagine herself allowing him to remove her mask. She couldn't chance it or the ramifications it might bring.

“The night is still young,” he said to her. The large, warm hand circling her hips was a tempting one.

“Stay…” he invited with an ardent whisper. “We both want more.”

And in reality, Zahra did.

He was beginning again; feasting on her nipples, squeezing her behind, touching her heat where their bodies were joined while his manhood slowly awakened and filled her yet again. As it rose, she savored the solidness of his strength. All thoughts of leaving were set aside so that she could rise and fall to his enchanting strokes.

Her education was thorough, seductive, and so filled with pleasure that Zahra lost all sense of time and place. When he whispered for her to open her legs, she did. When he invited her to turn around and then filled her from behind, she came again with his hands clutching her breasts. Zahra never knew a woman could be given so much pleasure and live. Each time he touched her she caught fire, and when they had finally had enough, Zahra let him drive her home.

As she entered the quiet house and climbed the
stairs, she passed Adam and Eve. The bliss on Eve's face was no longer a mystery. Zahra
knew.
And because she did, she could never let Archer Le Veq make love to her again.

 

The next morning, as Archer drove across town to visit with Speaker of the House George Carter, his thoughts were on Domino. To say that she'd been made for love was an understatement. Just thinking about the torrid night tightened his groin. Her playacting at innocent had lit a fire within him that still burned. Initially he'd thought one night would satisfy his desire for her, but he'd been wrong. The only thing making love to her had accomplished was to heighten his need for more. The need to discover her true identity had also become acute. None of the inquiries he'd sent out to friends and former war associates had come back with any information. As far as he could tell, the woman who called herself Domino had no past, but he hoped her future would be gracing his bed.

When he arrived at Speaker Carter's home, his knock was answered by Carter himself. Archer had never visited him at home before, but he saw that the place was well furnished, and the horsehair sofa Carter directed Archer to was comfortable.

Once they were settled and had shared the latest political gossip, Archer said, “Tell me about your illness.”

“The day Oscar died, I was frightfully ill, too. Prolonged stomach cramps, nausea. I feared I'd been dosed.”

“What did you do?”

“I was at the
National Republican
newspaper office when the sickness came over me, so I decided to lie down on a sofa hoping it would pass.”

The
National Republican
newspaper had been founded by Dunn and others allied with the Customhouse wing.

“Did it?”

“No. It worsened. I made my way home and went to bed. I was soon wracked by fever, vomiting, and then delirium.”

Archer's shock filled his face.

“I was for the most part unconscious when Dr. Austen came to see me. I was so ill, everyone here was certain I was about to join Oscar, but Austen filled me with hot drinks, put steaming poultices on my belly, and mercifully, I began to recover.”

“What was Austen's determination?”

“That I was simply ill. He even published a signed statement saying that although I'd been a very sick man, he didn't believe I'd been poisoned.”

“And you? What do you believe?”

“I was poisoned, Archer, and I'll swear by that until the day I do die.”

 

At dinner that evening, Archer told his brothers and mother the rest of Carter's story. “It seems others suffered from similar symptoms around that same time.”

”Like whom?” Juliana asked.

“Supposedly Warmoth, but he visited Oscar three times the night before Oscar died, and he appeared fine then.”

Drake added, “Warmoth was also a pallbearer at the funeral, so I think that rumor about him being poisoned too can be laid to rest.”

Philippe asked, “If all of these men were actually poisoned, any idea who might be behind it?”

“Besides Democrats, Knights of the White Camelia, and the White Leaguers, you can take your pick.”

The Knights of the White Camelia had been terrorizing Louisiana's Black citizens since 1868, and although Congress recently passed the Ku Klux Law forbidding the wearing of disguise with the intent of depriving persons of their rights, new groups like the White League continued to spread across the South, targeting Black office holders, prominent Black farmers, businessmen, and average citizens. Archer knew the only thing keeping supremacist violence from tearing Louisiana apart was the solid presence of the Union soldiers.

Juliana said wistfully, “The times held such promise after the war. Who would have thought we'd have five men of color in Congress today, and yet…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head sadly. “Kluxers are breaking into our homes, burning down our schools, killing our teachers. I wonder what kind of country my grandchildren will grow up to see?”

For a long moment silence reigned, then Drake said, “Speaking of grandchildren—have Raimond and Sable returned?”

Juliana's beautiful face brightened. “Yes. Earlier this evening. They'll join us for dinner tomorrow.”

Even though the brothers made it their business to aggravate Raimond, they'd missed their overbearing eldest sibling—but they couldn't wait to tell him they'd missed his wife and children more.

 

Zahra was wearing a drab gown and an equally drab cloak with the hood pulled up to mask her hair and face. Under the light of a sputtering streetlamp, she paid the cabbie his fare, then arranged for him to return in an hour. He drove off into the night, and Zahra crossed the road to the small house whose address matched the one in the note she'd received from Araminta.

Alfred had wanted to accompany her on this rendezvous, but Zahra had nixed the idea. Because of his size and the notoriety of his employer, Alfred's face had become quite well known in some quarters of the city. Zahra was not wearing her mask tonight, and she didn't want his presence drawing attention to her.

Her knock on the door was answered by a short, older woman wearing a flowered head wrap. “Yes?”

“I'm here to speak with Mr. Adams.”

“And you are?”

“A friend.”

The woman stepped back. “Please, come in.”

The house's interior was small and the furnishings worn and few. Zahra followed the woman through the house, then back outside into the night. Surprised but not alarmed yet, Zahra saw a small shack about a hundred meters to the left
and deduced by the path the woman was taking that it would be their destination.