Anew: Awakened Part 10

When I try to find information about Susannah, I get even fewer results. What's going on?

I broaden the search, asking for information on everything from 'Manhattan social scene' to 'past-times of the rich and famous'. I think I'm being particularly creative with that last one but all I get in return is gossip about various actors, music stars, and the like. As for Manhattan and anything that goes on there, the link hasn't a clue.

Finally, I get it. In an age where information is ubiquitous and privacy is the scarcest commodity, only the wealthiest and most powerful can live beyond the public eye. As much as I understand the urge to do so, I can't help but think that it comes at a cost. By sealing themselves off in such a way, they make it easier for the HPF and others of the same ilk to spread their wacko conspiracy theories.

Being stonewalled so effectively brings me to a full stop. I set the link aside, lean back on the bed, and close my eyes. I'm wondering if perhaps I need a nap, too, when my skin p.r.i.c.kles with awareness. The air feels suddenly charged. My breath quickens and a languorous warmth spreads through my body as the bed dips to one side.

I hear the whisper of my name before Ian's full weight abruptly settles on top of me. That quickly, I am pinned beneath him. In the same motion, his legs thrust between mine, making a s.p.a.ce for him.

His elbows hold my arms tight against my sides. His hands clasp my head as his mouth takes mine. Yet his kiss is unexpectedly gentle, a slow, deliberate savoring that surprises me. We have, as he so bluntly says, f.u.c.ked. But this gentle, coaxing exploration of my mouth hints at a sensuality more tender than I have experienced until now.

The need to touch him explodes in me, joined by frustration that I can do so only with my own mouth, my tongue, my breath. The intimate dance leaves me burning for more.

Finally, he relents, sucking on my lower lip and biting it lightly before releasing me. As he lifts his head, his eyes meet mine. There is no pretense in his gaze, no evasion, only hot carnal need and something more. Relief?

"You're here," he says. His voice is low and ragged, rippling through me.

Because he allows it, I manage to wiggle an arm free, raise my hand and gently, tentatively stroke his face. The stubble of his day's growth of beard is both soft and p.r.i.c.kly. The memory of it against my nipples, between my thighs, everywhere almost undoes me.

On a thread of breath, all I can manage, I remind him again, "I gave you my word."

He closes his eyes for a moment at my touch...at my words? I can't tell which affects him more. Gazing down at me, he catches my fingers in his and carries them to his mouth, sucking the tips in a caress that sends a jolt of pure pleasure through me "And I gave you mine," he says. "Then I pushed you really hard."

"Are you saying you regret what you did?"

Or is he sorry for what we have both learned about me? Would he rather have gone on believing that I had no will but his?

"I regret making you cry."

I remember how he looked when I refused the collar, how much the prospect of hurting me horrified him. There is a tender side to this man even if he hasn't shown it very often.

Daring greatly, I ask, "What about the outcome? You weren't disappointed by that?"

"That you came? Hardly."

He rakes his teeth along my chin and jaw line to my ear lobe. The tip of his tongue touches the small bite mark he inflicted earlier, stroking it gently. I have to press my lips together to keep from letting the moan in my throat escape but he feels it all the same.

Looking up, he gives me a smile that goes right to my core and makes my muscles clench. "I've always preferred a challenge."

A horrible possibility occurs to me. If he's actually glad that I am the way I am, am I really free or just designed to seem like that for his benefit?

As though he can read my thoughts, Ian strokes a finger along my cheeks and says more gently, "Don't over think this, Amelia. n.o.body really knows what free will is or even if it exists for any of us. We've just decided that it does because otherwise people couldn't be held responsible for their actions and society would pretty much collapse overnight. So let's just agree that you can make your own choices and leave it at that, all right?"

He can't possibly be as casual about that as he seems. Apart from upending all his a.s.sumptions about his shiny new toy, if the replica process can produce individuals with free will, the implications are staggering. What will the consequences of that be for humanity in general?

I can't begin to answer that or much of anything else. Doubt threatens to overwhelm me.

"I suppose..."

He props himself up on his elbows and frowns down at me. "Don't tell me you're still not convinced that you can choose?"

"No, I am but--"

He catches a stray wisp of my hair and twines it around his fingers, tugging gently. For a moment, an expression flits across his face--surprise, reflection? I can't be sure. It vanishes as his eyes turn dark and smoky.

"Maybe we need another experiment," he says.

To my embarra.s.sment, he has my immediate attention. "What kind of...experiment?"

The swiftness with which he responds tells me he's been giving this some thought. "Instead of my telling you that you can't come, you make up your mind that you won't. I'll try my best to persuade you otherwise, purely in the interest of scientific inquiry. But if your will is strong enough--"

His smile, more of a leer really, is an invitation to a contest we both know I can't win.

I snort and try to swat his hand away at the same time I marvel at his resiliency. "All we'd demonstrate is that where you're concerned, my body overrules my mind."

He looks so smugly pleased that I feel compelled to right the balance. On a sudden impulse, I say, "I have a better idea. Why don't we find out what I really want?"

Belatedly, I remember that he spent five years in the Special Forces. His instincts for danger, or at least potential trouble, must be finely honed and his methods for dealing with either are likely to be ruthless.

Without taking his eyes from me, he asks, "How would we do that?"

Before I can reconsider, I take hold of my courage and say, "You're always in control. What if I was, instead?"

In a heartbeat, his expression runs the gamut from surprise and wariness to a pleasure so feral that his eyes blaze. A low growl rises from deep in his throat.

I am more than a little intimidated yet at the same time emboldened. Such is the contradictory nature of my response to this man, drawn to him irresistibly and at the same time afraid that in his thrall I will have no existence of my own.

Words rush from me. "I want to touch you...all of you...in my own way at my own pace. I want to discover you." Leaping from daring to recklessness, I add, "Purely in the interest of scientific inquiry."

Ian takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it out slowly. His body shifts on top of mine, widening the spread of my legs.

He strokes my lower lip, tugging gently, and says, "I don't do that...giving up control, I mean. At least, I haven't. But you--" His eyes narrow speculatively. "You tempt me, Amelia--"

He slides a hand under my blouse and cups my breast, his thumb making lazy circles over my nipple. At once, a bolt of pleasure lances through me. I want... I need-- My head arches back. Staring up at the wrought iron dome above the pavilion and at the braided ropes holding the bed in the air, I have a sudden flashing image of the golden cage in the Cabinet of Secret Delights, and myself suspended there waiting for-- Abruptly, I remember where we are. I press my hands against his shoulders, pushing hard but with no effect. He's heavier even than his long, lithe body would suggest and he's pure muscle.

"Ian, not here! The staff--"

His mouth traces a line of fire down my throat as his hand reaches lower to pull up my skirt. Against my skin, he murmurs, "They're very discreet."

Since the only one I've seen so far is Hodgkin, I can believe him but it doesn't make any difference.

"Are they also blind and deaf? Stop!"

What happened to letting me take control? How did we get off that subject? It's all well and good that I fantasized about being with him in the pavilion that first evening but that doesn't mean I actually want to do it!

He raises his head and every nerve ending in my body tingles. The molten heat in his eyes threatens to dissolve me. I try to close my legs but he won't allow it. His long, skillful fingers slide under the edge of my panties, probing for and finding the lips of my s.e.x, opening me to him-- I am on the verge of forgetting all my inhibitions when the taut, carnal set of his face softens suddenly.

"s.h.i.t!" He levers himself up on his elbows, looking dazed and more than a little disgusted with himself. Before he can say anything more, we both freeze at the sound of a throat being cleared nearby.

From somewhere behind the pavilion, thankfully not in a position to view its occupants, Hodgkin says, "Your pardon, sir, but the party you wanted to speak with has called back again."

Ian lowers his forehead to the pillow beside me and takes a long, shuddering breath. In the next moment, he angles himself off my body. The sudden absence of his weight and touch leave me bereft. He pauses a moment beside the bed, scorching me with a look of pure sensual carnality, before striding off toward the main wing.

Well! That was-- I haven't a clue what it was apart from being frustrating on multiple levels. Only the painful tightness in my chest reminds me to breathe. I should get up and do something but I can't bring myself to disturb the lingering sense of his body on mine. It feels that rare and precious to me.

Without wanting to dwell on how open and vulnerable I am to him, I go back to staring at the sky through the wrought iron lacing, trying to make sense of what just happened until I accept that I'm not going to be able to do so. I have no idea what was so compelling as to make him leave, or indeed if anything was. Perhaps he merely seized on the call as an excuse to get away from both the situation and me. My heart sinks at that thought but I have to acknowledge that it was probably best for both of us.

I need a distraction, something to think about in this world other than Ian and how he makes me feel...want...yearn...need. My hands still ache from the long hours at the piano yesterday and the rest of my body continues to remind me that I overdid in the studio this morning, although I can't manage to regret the results. Ian is likely to be in the library which makes this as good a time as any to explore more of the palazzo and its grounds.

I leave the pavilion but not before entering a note into the link and putting it on the bed where Ian cannot fail to find it if he comes in search of me.

Gone exploring. On the grounds! No need to send out the scary elite security (not goon) guys.

Hoping that will keep him from worrying, I walk a little distance in the opposite direction from the palazzo. Stone steps lead down a gentle slope to a broad lawn. In the distance, I can see the tree line and beyond it the wilderness. But I'm more interested in the glint of late afternoon sun shining off the long expanse of a gla.s.s roof.

Drawing closer, I realize that it belongs to a greenhouse. There's no sign of anyone about but even so I hesitate before trying the door. It opens readily, releasing a puff of warm, moist air lush with a panoply of scents, some a little sweet, others tart with a hint of spice. But without the earthy, loamy smell that I would have expected.

As soon as I enter, I realize that this is a working greenhouse, designed not for the display of beautiful plants but for the production of fresh fruits, vegetables, herbs, and greens, all grown hydroponically in nutrient solutions rather than soil. Wandering among the beds and hanging trellises, I quickly become so fascinated that I lose track of time.

Nibbling on a cherry tomato plucked from a climbing vine, I watch the ladybugs at work in a bed of potato plants, on the prowl for other, harmful insects to snack on. The greenhouse is very quiet except for the hum of machinery mixing nutrients, pumping water and circulating air. I could pull up a chair, settle in and be perfectly content here at least for awhile, only stirring to graze when hunger moved me.

Even better, I can imagine myself wandering about with a basket in hand, picking and choosing from the bounty. Yet I can't help wondering why this place even exists. If Ian has a pa.s.sion for gardening, he hasn't revealed it yet.

I'm still there, trying to puzzle it all out, when Hodgkin comes to tell me that dinner will be served in an hour.

I have no idea what mood I will find Ian in nor am I entirely certain of my own. The daring request I made in the pavilion and his vehement response are uppermost in my mind. But so are his swift withdrawal, and all the doubts and concerns that I have in general.

Perhaps because of that, I take extra trouble with my appearance, debating what to wear before deciding on a short-sleeved dress with a bodice of broad, tightly woven silk ribbons above a fitted waist and a flounced chiffon skirt that ends well above my knees.

I pick it for the color, a pale yellow that reminds me of spring and makes me think of some of the furled blossoms on plants just coming into flower in the greenhouse. I leave my hair down but pull it back from my face with a comb on each side.

Looking at myself in the mirror opposite the golden bed, I can't help but notice that my eyes are shadowed and I am paler than usual. Distantly, I know that events are catching up with me but I have no more idea of what to do about that than I do about so much else.

Going out the bedroom door in a pair of strappy heels higher than what I've worn before, I resolve to try to put those concerns aside at least for the moment. After waiting so long to live at all, I don't want to miss savoring the present because I'm too pre-occupied worrying about the future.

Ian is waiting in the gallery beside the garden. He looks as elegant as two nights before but to even more effect now that I understand the power of the perfectly sculpted body beneath the bespoke suit. As I approach, he's speaking to someone on a link. He gives me a smile and an appreciative look as he wraps up the conversation.

"And it will be ready when?" he asks. "Two days? Sooner would be better but the priority is to get it right." He listens for a moment, then says, "Good. Let me know when it's done." Without waiting for a response, he ends the call and turns his full attention on me.

A breeze blows off the garden, making me aware suddenly of just how much skin I'm showing. The dress really is short and the heels somehow make it feel even more so. Moreover, the woven ribbon bodice is a little tight, causing my b.r.e.a.s.t.s to swell above it. I'm beginning to wish that I'd brought a shawl but I reconsider when I see what is in his eyes. He desires me, as I do him. But beyond that, the sight of me alone gives him pleasure.

Huskily, he says, "You look beautiful, Amelia, as always."

He leads me to the table and pulls out my chair for me. I sit, trying surrept.i.tiously to tug my skirt down. Food appears, wine, candlelight, music plays somewhere nearby, torcheres leap against the gathering darkness and braziers cast a glow of warmth across the gallery. I notice little of that; there is only Ian, the shape of his mouth, the timbre of his voice, his hand lying on the damask cloth near mine, the light in his eyes.

"Not in the mood for steak tonight?" he asks.

I look down at the food before me with surprise. It is partially eaten but I have no recollection of even tasting it.

"It's fine." Tartly, I add, "At least we know that I'm able to feed myself."

His eyes are on my mouth. I shift a little uneasily as he says, "I wonder what else you're capable of, Amelia."

I have no appet.i.te, not for food. I want to touch him, feel him, possess him. The music surrounds us, a ballad of some sort, old and knowing, filled with yearning.

"Talk to me," I say. "Tell me about yourself."

He frowns, caught off balance. "What do you want to know?"

Everything! But where to begin? I remember something he said the other night at dinner. "Why did you join the military when you were eighteen? That isn't customary for the children of wealthy families, is it?"

He hesitates and for a moment I think he isn't going to answer but finally he says, "My father and I didn't get along. I didn't want the future he envisioned for me so I decided to make my own."

His tone suggests that he's said all he will on the subject but I want more. "How did you go from enlisting to being in the Special Forces? You have to be chosen for that, don't you?"

Ian nods slowly. Weighing his words, he says, "I had...certain qualities that pointed me in that direction. They were noticed by the man who became my commanding officer. He recruited me into the S.F."

I can guess at some of those qualities--intelligence, determination, superb physical condition, a certain ruthless focus. But I suspect there were others, perhaps having to do with his need to always be in control of both himself and any situation.

It occurs to me that for control to be so important to him, he must have experienced the loss of it at some time in his life. Which makes what I have asked him for all the more daring.

Rather than dwell on that, I ask, "What prompted you to leave when you did?"

Again, he hesitates. I can tell this isn't easy for him and I marvel that he's even willing to try.

"My father died." Pre-empting any expression of sympathy, he adds, "Driving a high-powered sports car off a cliff will do that to you. I had to come back to look after the family business. Besides, I'd gotten what I could out of where I was."

"What was that?" I ask softly, afraid to disrupt the mood of openness between us.

Quietly, he says, "I learned control. Mainly of myself but when it's necessary, of others."

I swallow with some difficulty but whether from fear or excitement I can't say. Most likely both.

"But it's still a part of you, isn't it?" I ask. "Those men you sent to find me, they aren't just a normal security force."

He shrugs. "What's normal in this world? If you're asking whether they're ex-Special Forces like me, yes, they are. But enough of that. Hodgkin mentioned that you found the greenhouse. What do you think of it?"

The abrupt change of subject leaves me at a loss but only for a moment. "It's remarkable. I had no idea that so much food could be grown so efficiently in such a relatively small s.p.a.ce."

Ian nods. Clearly, this is something that matters to him. "The trick is scaling that up," he says. "Much larger versions of that greenhouse are being used to improve food security where that still remains a major issue."

"You support those efforts?"

"The foundation I set up does. It's not a cure-all but at least some conflict could be eliminated if food could be produced more efficiently. We've had the technology to do that for a long time. The problem is getting it implemented in regions with corrupt governments, entrenched cultural practices, and the like."

I can't help thinking that a world with less conflict would also be less in need of what he sells. Apparently that doesn't concern Ian. This side of him, as a man genuinely trying to make a positive difference in the world, is new to me but it doesn't come as a surprise. True, he pushed me painfully close to my limits in the spa but I still don't have an impression of him as a man who is callous or cruel, only very deliberate and determined.