"Alessandra."
She glanced back over her shoulder to see him frowning at her.
"What's wrong? Don't you want me?"
Tenderness rushed over her. With one word she could hurt him terribly. It was there in the open vulnerability of his expression. She was closing him out again because she was afraid. Perhaps if she could force herself to share her fear as he had shared his past . . . She turned to face him. "I want you." She gazed directly at him. "There's something you should know. I'm not experienced. I may not be able to please you." She lifted her chin. "At first. But if you'll help me, I promise I'll make up for it later. I learn fast, and I'll be competent in no time." She was speaking rapidly, the words tumbling over one another. Slowly. She wasn't a child, to be this nervous. "I know you must have had all kinds of affairs, and you may not want to—" She broke off. "Why don't you say something?" "I'm trying to take it in," he said blankly. Bruner?"
"You said once that I was probably going to be your hair shirt. You were joking, but that's what I am to James." She shook her head sadly. "He's a good man. He inherited the factory from his father and never really knew what war was all about until he visited Said Ababa after the revolution. It really came home to him then—the wars and the misery he had helped to create by indiscriminate munitions sales he had made. I think, in some ways, I became a symbol for him. His penance. If he could make everything right for me, then maybe he could assuage the guilt he felt about all the rest. When I brought up my idea about helping the children, he jumped at it." "But why no one else? You're a very responsive woman." She shrugged. "I don't know why. Maybe you're right. It could be that I didn't trust anyone enough to let him get that close to me." She paused. "Until now."
He experienced a joy so intense, he could scarcely conntain it. Joy and a sudden apprehension just as intense. What if he fouled up and disappointed her? "You really believe in loading responsibility on a man, don't you, love?"
"Oh, no." Her eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't
want you to feel responsible. I just thought you should know." She rushed on. "I'm not even a virgin. When James took me out of the camp, he was given the record of the examination the doctor gave me when they brought me there." She frowned like an earnest little girl. "I'm quite normal, but I wasn't a virgin."
She was trying to reassure him. She'd been only twelve years old when she had entered the camp. Oh, Lord, don't let her ever remember that time before. He felt a hot stinging behind his lids and had to transfer his gaze from her face to the flickering flame of a candle. "I'll make a deal with you," he said gruffly. "Suppose you be responsible for me and I'll be responsible for you. I don't mind responsibility. I'm beginning to like the idea." He turned away. "I hope you'll learn to like it too."
She gazed at the door in bemusement after it closed behind him. Responsibility. It was such a heavy word. Yet it had sounded warm and beautiful, the way Sandor had said it, and there was nothing heavy about the way it made her feel. Her step was as light as the zinging exhilaration floating through her veins as she turned and moved quickly toward the door of the dressing room.
Seven
The exquisite square of patterned silk was folded neatly beside the candelabrum she had set on the marble-topped vanity. It was the first thing Ales-sandra saw when she stepped out of the shower stall and reached for the towel on the rack beside it. There was a brief note lying on the top of the silk.
It belongs to my mother. She would want you to wear it.
S.
It was the second note she had received from Sandor. Who could have imagined when she had been given that first tension-charged directive that within forty-eight hours she would be reading this entirely different and intimate message? She hurriedly finished drying and tossed the towel aside.
She could hardly wait to shake out that alluring heap of colorful silk.
It was a shawl. Not a token bit of material, but a full shawl such as she had seen worn by Spanish flamenco dancers. The white silk background had been mellowed to a rich ivory by years of loving use. The once-brilliant blossoms of the print had faded to a delicate shade of pink, and the thick, eight-inch silk fringe bordering it gleamed and flowed in the candlelight. Beautiful. The shawl was like Sandor's home, old and lovely and cared for with great love and devotion. In a world filled with disposable items and disposable relationships, it was rare and wonderful to find a family whose devotion to one another and their possessions only increased as time passed.
She hurriedly brushed her hair until it shone and rippled in rich brown waves over her shoulders. Then she draped the shawl about her, leaving her shoulders bare. The silk triangle was so large, the fringe brushed against her mid-thighs and the folds completely enveloped her in its rich beauty.
She felt beautiful. Her fingers lovingly touched the silk fringe. Being physically attractive had never been high on her list of priorities, but she was suddenly passionately grateful for this illusion of beauty she'd been given. She wanted to be beautiful for Sandor tonight.
She clutched the shawl together over her breasts with one hand and opened the door with the other. "Sandor?"
"Right here."
She had known he would be there waiting for her. Sandor would always be there to help and succor when she needed him. Always? The word had come naturally to mind, but she mustn't think of always. Sometimes a moment could be enough. She turned to pick up the candelabrum from the vanity and entered the bedroom.
He was already in bed, leaning against the carved headboard of the enormous bed with a sheet draped carelessly over his naked hips. Naked. She stopped abruptly in the middle of the room. She drew a deep breath and tried to stop the trembling of her hand clasping the silver candelabrum. Of course he was naked. What else had she expected? "Thank you for letting me use your mother's shawl. It's absolutely magnificent. I'm surprised she didn't take it with her."
"It's one of her favorite shawls. Our family believes that when you depart from a place or a person you love, you should always leave a treasured object behind to retain possession. It's a common tradition here in Tamrovia. It's called the casimar, the homing."
"The homing," she echoed softly. "What is your mother's given name?"
"Mariana. Why?"
"No reason." Thank you, Mariana. For the use of the shawl, the casimar, and, most of all, for this man sitting looking at her with a warm in-tentness more gentle than the candlelight. "I just wondered." She set the candelabrum on the table beside her. "Shall I blow out the candles?"
"No. I want to see you." He suddenly chuckled. "I've spent two nights in the dark in bed with you. I think it's time for a change, don't you?"
"If you do." She moistened her lower lip with her tongue as she climbed the three steps to stand beside the bed. "I didn't mind lying in bed in the dark with you. It was very . . . nice."
"Nice." A little smile tugged at his lips. "What a stilted understatement. Are you, by any chance, a little nervous, love?"
"A little," she admitted, not looking at him. "I don't know what you expect of me."
He tugged at the fringe of the shawl. "Look at me." His expression was grave. "I expect to enjoy you and I expect you to enjoy me. That's what this is all about." He paused before adding softly, "Joy."
She felt a melting deep within her. "I think I can handle that."
"You can handle anything." His eyes were twinkling. "And I give you full permission to do it. My humble person is at your service." His hand covered her hand clutching the shawl over her breasts and gently unclenched it. "I'll take care of this. I want you to have your hands free." He threw aside the sheet and swiveled to a sitting position on the side of the bed so she was standing between his legs.
She inhaled sharply. She suddenly felt very vulnerable standing here in near-nakedness, held captive by his hand on the silk at her breast. Vulnerable and tingling and . . . The soft hair dusting his thighs was pressing against her smooth skin, and his eyes were darkening with
the same tension that was causing her breasts to lift and fall with every breath.
His hand moved slowly to the fringe brushing her thighs. "Do you know how lovely you are?" His voice was hoarse. "You look as sensual as the Delacroix painting of his Odalisque. When you walked through that door, I wanted you so much, I thought it would kill me."
'"You appeared very . . ." His hand was moving the veil of fringe aside, and the touch of his warm fingertips on her inner thigh caused her to flinch with surprise. "Calm."
"Did I? I don't even remember what I said. All I could think of were those lovely legs and what was waiting between them." He had found what was waiting between them. "So soft," he murmured, his fingers moving in gentle exploration. "I think your fringe is more silky than the shawl's."
"Sandor." She could barely force the word out through the tightness of her throat. What his fingers were doing to her was causing jolts of electricity through every muscle of her body. "I can't ..."
"Shh, I know." His hand clutching the silk over her breasts loosened barely enough to let the shawl slip from her shoulders to just below her breasts. He tightened his grip and the band of silk lifted her breasts into bold prominence. His gaze was hot and intent as it fastened on the full, swollen mounds jutting from their bed of silk. "Let me suckle, love." His head was moving slowly toward her. "Pleasure me. As I will pleasure you." His fingers plunged deep as his open mouth closed over her nipple.
Alessandra's head jerked back. She gave a low moan, her hands clutching wildly at his shoulders for support. Her legs felt as if they would col
lapse at any second. The steady hungry suckling at her breast was incredibly erotic, and the rhythm of his fingers . . .
"Are you ready for me?" His teeth gently pulled at her nipple. "Lord, love, say you're ready for me." He began suckling at her other breast, his tongue moving over her. He lifted his head. "I hate to leave these pretty things, but if I don't get inside you I'm going to go insane. Are you rea—"
"Yes," she interrupted. "Yes!"
"Then, come." He pulled her down astride him. With one jerk, the shawl was no longer around her, but tossed on the chair beside the bed. His lips covered her own with an urgency that held an element of pain. His tongue entered her mouth as he shifted her body to attain another entrance.
Her nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders as she felt the teasing abrasion of his hair-roughened chest against her sensitive nipples. His breathing was harsh, as if he were running, and she heard him give a low groan of hunger against her lips.
With one plunge they were together. Fullness. Heat. Casimar. She was the one who was groaning now. The sensation was incredible. She wanted more. Her hips moved yearningly, and then she had to stop as a shudder of pleasure shook her. He felt so right within her.
His palm was slowly rubbing the tight curls surrounding him. "Such a lovely fringe." His voice was so thick, it was nearly gutteral. "Such a lovely Alessandra. I'd like to wear you as a shawl." He was falling sidewise on the bed and his hips were moving with frantic urgency. "I want you around me." She gasped as he plunged deeper. "In me.
Over me. I want you to become so much a part of me that—" He broke off. His face was heavy with sensuality and a pained pleasure as he moved with increasing force and passion.
Every breath she drew was a gasp and every touch was a shock as the tension grew. She felt as if he were tearing her apart, cleaving her with the violence of their passion. Yet his actions held no violence but that of sheer intensity. He rolled over on his back, and his hands on her hips moved her, shifting her over him. His lips opened to catch at her nipple as he lifted his hips to plunge upward.
She couldn't breathe. She was too full. Too full of joy. Too full of hunger. Too full of Sandor.
He was moving faster, deeper, and the tension was growing. She couldn't take any more. Yet she did, and still found herself reaching out again and again. Then there was no more to accept, only the radiant explosion of sensation and the treasure left behind to retain an eternal possession. Casimar.
Sandor's eyes were closed, and his chest was heaving with the harshness of his breathing. His hands were still holding her hips, and she could see the pulse continuing to pound wildly in the hollow of his throat. "Lord, you're wonderful."
"We're wonderful." She was suddenly giddy with happiness. She wanted to laugh or shout. "I think it was fair to say this was a joint operation." She glanced down, her lips twitching. "Particularly since our togetherness still very obviously exists."
He opened his eyes. "Not as obviously as a moment ago, unfortunately." His hands encircled her breasts. "But I think in this case we can expect
an astounding restoration in no time at all. Come here."
His tongue flicked lazily at one pink nipple as she bent forward. She felt a flexing and then a deep stirring within her that corresponded with the rebirth of the tension she had thought was gone from her own body. The pleasure was going to begin again. She experienced a flicker of excitement like the first spark that will eventually ignite a blaze. Yet there was something she wanted to say to him, feelings she wanted to put into words, about the joy he had given her.
"Sandor, I want to tell you—"
"Later, love." He was rolling over her on the bed and looking down at her with eyes that held glowing tenderness as well as hunger. "We can talk later. This is more important now."
"Yes." She closed her eyes and let emotion sweep her away. He was right. This was what was important. Words could come later. "Oh, yes."
She was sleeping. Sandor carefully shifted her to one side and took his arms from around her. Alessandra muttered a half-audible protest, and he froze into stillness. A moment later her breathing resumed its even tenor. He drew the sheet up about her shoulders and brushed a light kiss on her forehead. Then he slipped from the bed and dressed quickly. He moved silently across the room toward the bedroom door.
Damn! He didn't want to leave Alessandra. He was tempted to turn around and slip back into bed and take her in his arms again. Their time together had been so damnably brief. Surely it wouldn't hurt to . . . No, he couldn't go back to her. He had been foolishly reckless to take this chance and bring her to Limtana. He had known at the time, but he had wanted this time with her in his home. The memory might have to last him for the rest of his life. He had to accept the risk he had run and couldn't indulge himself any further tonight. There hadn't been any sign of Naldona's men, but he had to be sure. He would take a final look around the grounds to make certain before he allowed himself to return to her. Alessandra must be safeguarded.
He opened the door and cast another quick glance over his shoulder. He felt a sudden poignant pang of tenderness. She looked as vulnerable as a sleeping child in the huge bed. He stood there a moment, just looking at her. Then he softly closed the door behind him.
"Wake up, Alessandra. We have to get the hell out of here."
The web of sleep was torn with an abruptness that brought Alessandra bolt upright in bed. "What is it?"
Sandor strode out of the bathroom and tossed her clothes on the bed. He had turned on the flashlight, and his face was taut and hard in its faint glow. "Get dressed. There's something happening out there, and I don't like it."
"What?" She jumped out of bed and began dressing swiftly. "A guard?"
He nodded. "Very much in the plural, judging by the voices I heard in the garden." His lips
tightened. "I didn't stay to count them after I saw a helicopter start to land."
"Reinforcements? But how could they know we're here?"
"I have no idea. We'll worry about that after we're gone. Ready?"
She nodded as she snatched up her knapsack. "Let's go."
He was already at the door. He stopped her by placing his hand on her arm. "This isn't what I planned," he said quietly. "I wanted this night to be as perfect for you as it was for me."
Good Lord, was he apologizing at a moment like this? Then her impatience was submerged i
n tenderness. She had a lot to learn. When danger surfaced, she had instinctively pushed the experience they had shared to the rear of her consciousness, as if it hadn't existed. Sandor had obviously been even more conscious of the danger than she, and yet he hadn't allowed it to diminish what they'd had together. "There are a few advantages to being awakened in the middle of the night," she said with a smile. "I won't have to wonder when I wake up in the morning if you still respect me."
"I'll respect you. Tonight, tomorrow, for the rest of our lives." His kiss was quick and hard. "Now let's get out of here, or the rest of our lives may be very brief."
They were halfway down the hall when they heard the voice; loud, hollow, and slightly distorted by the megaphone. "Karpathan!"
Sandor muttered a curse.
"It sounded so close," Alessandra whispered. "Are they in the castle?"
'"Downstairs in the entrance hall, by the sound of it. Or at least he is."
The voice came again, slightly mocking. "Come and talk to me, Karpathan. You're in no danger at the moment. I have something special and entirely fitting planned for you."
She knew that voice. "It's Naldona," Alessandra said, shocked.
Sandor nodded. "The helicopter. He obviously couldn't resist the temptation to come and close the trap himself." He turned and began striding down the hall toward the main staircase. "Stay here."
"You're going down there? They'll kill you!"
"We need time. I don't want them rushing us." He cast her a reassuring smile. "I'm not going downstairs. I'll stand at the top of the stairs and talk to him." He flicked out the flashlight. "And I'll make damn sure the hall is in complete darkness and I'm not a target."
"Then I'm going with you."
"I expected that. You're a difficult lady for a man to protect. Why not let me fight this particular dragon?"