Anew: Awakened Part 6

Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!

The two thousand acres of untouched nature preserve that surround the palazzo are a rare treasure but they contain more than a few dangers. Now that it's spring, migratory black bears, Canadian wolves, and bobcats are pa.s.sing through, most of them aggressive young males looking for mates. If she'd had an encounter with any one of those-- Then there are the cliffs and steep ravines, the swiftly running rivers and streams that can topple anyone trying to ford them, the endless opportunities to trip over a gnarled root or rock and twist an ankle, becoming incapacitated-- She could so easily have been hurt or worse.

And that's before I even get to the potential threat from the greatest danger of all--humans.

Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!

A backlash against the existence of clones and replicas is growing, made all the greater by the fear that technology is challenging the essence of what it means to be human. Anger has ratcheted up among those from whom the march of progress has brought only a crushing sense of no longer being either needed or relevant. Not surprisingly, some want to destroy what they regard as a threat not merely to themselves but to the very existence of humanity.

If Amelia had encountered any of them-- Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!

I close my eyes, still punching, and see her standing in the clearing, surrounded by my men. She was obviously terrified--how could she be otherwise when she had no idea who they were or what they intended? But she kept her head up and she didn't give an inch.

Again in the library, she faced me down, refusing the collar, letting me know what I can do with any idea of her being my property. I haven't seen very many displays of courage to equal that. She is brave but she is also maddeningly stubborn and defiant...not to mention beautiful, pa.s.sionate, incredibly responsive... My groin tightens. I ignore it and keep up the hard, relentless rhythm.

Don't give her any reason to run.

At least not any more reason than I've already done.

Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthud!

Finally, I've had enough. Stripping off the gloves, I head for the shower. The down rush of ice cold water helps. So do fresh clothes and a shave. I feel marginally more in control of myself as I return to the library intending to take refuge in work. The strands of Debussy's Reverie coming from the music room stop me.

For a moment, I'm catapulted back in time. The piece was one of Susannah's favorites. She played it often. But it isn't Susannah sitting at the polished black grand piano in the high-ceilinged music room flooded with late afternoon light.

Amelia's long, exquisite legs extend beneath the hem of the short pleated black skirt she's wearing with a softly draped ivory silk blouse. I can't help but be struck by her natural elegance. She is the personification of a particular male fantasy to which I am definitely not immune. A perfect lady in the drawing room, or in this case the music room, and a perfect--not wh.o.r.e, she's not remotely that--but a perfect s.e.xual partner behind closed doors.

Inevitably, my body hardens yet again. That's getting to be my perpetual state whenever I'm around her. Oh, h.e.l.l, why not admit it? I don't have to be anywhere near her. Just a stray thought about her is enough to get me going.

Her head is tilted to one side, the fall of her chestnut hair partially obscuring her features. But I can see that she looks pensive and somewhat sad as her fingers move over the keys. She plays beautifully, imparting genuine feeling to the dreamlike piece. I have to wonder why she isn't enjoying it more.

As though sensing my presence, she looks up. Her cheeks flush softly, affording me a small measure of satisfaction. She may reject certain aspects of our relationship but she isn't by any means immune to the intensity of whatever this is between us.

"Don't let me interrupt you," I say, walking farther into the airy, high-ceilinged room. "You play beautifully."

She shakes her head. "Susannah played beautifully, that's obvious. I'm just some sort of recording."

Her bitterness is unmistakable but beneath it I sense an undercurrent of fear. For all her insistence to the contrary, she still harbors doubts about herself as an individual able to make her own choices.

I don't question my sudden need to comfort and rea.s.sure her. "Perhaps with that piece but what about with another? Something that Susannah didn't play?"

She looks at me, her eyes filled with need so stark that it makes the underused organ in my chest constrict. "What are you saying?" she asks.

I lean against the side of the piano and study her. The tips of my fingers hold the memory of how it felt to stroke her all over from the softness of her lips parting when I thrust my thumb into her mouth and told her to suck to the hot, enticing wetness between her legs that made me shake with the need to be inside her. I swear that I can still hear her breathy moans, feel her arch under me, smell her arousal...

f.u.c.king her senseless should have taken the edge off. Instead, all it's done is make me want her more. I grit my teeth against the sudden image of her spread out on the piano, that silky little blouse ripped open, her skirt hitched up around her waist, my c.o.c.k thrusting into her.

"You're staring," she says.

Her blush deepens as she speaks, drawing me up short. I have to hope that she's still too innocent to have any inkling of what's going on in my head. I sure as h.e.l.l don't want her to know how susceptible I am to her. After only one night in her bed, I'm up against the stark reality that she effects me as no other woman has ever done.

The differences between her and Susannah are striking. Aside from the dissimilarities in their natures, the play of expression across her face, her body language, even the timbre of her voice make it impossible to confuse her with the woman she's supposed to be a copy of. I don't understand how that can be but neither can I deny how uniquely herself she is.

Determined not to let her see how bewildered she makes me feel, I shrug. "It's hard not to stare. You're very lovely. But to answer your question, Susannah only played cla.s.sical music. Why don't you try something different? Jazz or blues or the fusion of techno and neo-cla.s.sical that's popular these days? Choose a piece and make it your own."

I can that see the idea appeals to her. She's suddenly brighter, even hopeful and that in turn pleases me. I show her the link on a nearby table.

During my years in the Special Forces, I had a miniaturized version implanted in the mastoid bone directly behind my right ear, always ready to spool operational data, report my life signs, and so on. When I came out, so did it. Having that thing in my head was just too intrusive. Plus there was always the risk of being hacked.

The civilian fad for such implants took a big hit following the ma.s.s suicides of 2031 triggered by a virus transmitted in a routine software update. Lawsuits from that incident are still wending their way through the courts.

Neither one of us is surprised to discover that Amelia already knows how to use this particular piece of technology, the most ubiquitous in our civilization. Within minutes, she's called up a wide range of sheet music from a variety of genres.

"You can print out whatever you want," I remind her. "But you'll probably find it more convenient to just project it."

She nods but I can tell that her attention is already elsewhere. I've lost out to Dizzy Gillespie, George Gershwin, Paul McCartney, Balo Kensa and the like but I don't mind. Her smile is recompense enough--for the moment.

Leaving her to it, I return to the library where, a short time later, I hear the opening notes of a jazz syncopation. I can't help but grin. The piece is utterly unlike anything that Susannah ever played. Clearly, technical ability was part of Amelia's imprinting but the sensibilities she brings to the music are entirely her own. Something more to ponder.

By evening, she's tried out numerous genres but seems to have settled on 20th century jazz. I interrupt long enough to suggest that she join me for dinner but when she declines I don't press it. Hours later, when I stretch out on the couch in the library, she's still in the music room, lost in what she's discovering about herself.

I don't expect to sleep. Just knowing that she's nearby is enough to give me a perpetual hard-on. I could do something about that but the idea of interrupting her doesn't seem right and jerking off has zero appeal. Despite my uncomfortable state, I drift off listening to the melodic twists of another jazz piece.

I wake in a cold sweat. It's late, the music has stopped, the only light comes from a small shaded lamp near the couch. But I can still see Amelia, broken and anguished, staring at me with pain-filled eyes.

The nightmare is so vivid that for a horrible moment I'm afraid it's real. It doesn't fade until I rise, forcing myself to breathe deeply, and throw open the doors leading out to the gallery. Fresh, cool air helps to clear my head but makes my thoughts all the darker.

The images in my mind won't let go. If I had tried to force the collar on her, she would have fought me with all her strength. I want to believe that faced with such resistance, I would have relented before she could have come to any harm. But I don't have the same trust in myself that I had a day ago. As much as I loathe admitting it, the control that I've fought half my life to achieve has been shaken simply by her existence.

Deep inside, the thought stirs that the right thing to do for both our sakes would be to make other arrangements for her. But the instant that crosses my mind a rush of fierce possessiveness burns it away. However all this happened, she is mine and she is d.a.m.n well going to stay that way. I'll just have to make sure that I keep her safe, including from the darker aspects of my own nature.

I go back to work. It's been my salvation since I was old enough to figure out what I'm good at. In the hours that follow, I consider a range of projects that will further strengthen my company's position in a world where no amount of technological progress seems able to stop the endless struggles for power and resources.

Fortunately, that seemingly unchangeable fact of human nature creates opportunities for those ruthless enough to seize them. I may even manage to do some good along the way.

I lose track of the pa.s.sing hours and scarcely notice when morning comes. I'm on a video call with Shanghai when Hodgkin appears.

He stands at the door of the library and says, "I thought you should know, sir. Miss Amelia is awake but she declined breakfast. I believe she has gone to the studio."

The studio, not the music room? I take that to mean she is continuing her efforts to discover what Susannah gave to her. But she isn't eating. That won't do.

"Thank you, Hodgkin. I'll check on her."

"Very good, sir."

I delay a few minutes because I don't want to admit to myself how urgently I need to see her. But the sun has barely edged over the red-tiled roofs of the palazzo when I cross the garden to the wing where the studio is located.

The room was designed to resemble the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, a long rectangular s.p.a.ce with a high, frescoed ceiling, polished parquet floors and a mirrored wall looking out over the gardens. As I near it, I hear the soft thud of feet.

Amelia is dancing. She's wearing a pale pink leotard and white tights that together hug almost every delectable inch of her. Her hair is wound into a bun pinned at the back of her long, slender neck. Every movement she makes is graceful, ethereal, perfect. She looks intent and--I am infinitely glad to note--not in the least sad.

I step back from the door, unwilling to disturb her but I stay where I can see her reflection clearly. As she spins into a series of quick rotations that carry her part-way down the length of the studio, I am held spellbound.

I'm sufficiently well versed in full contact martial arts and lethal hand-to-hand combat to have at least some understanding of what it takes to get a human body to move with such discipline and agility. Yet she makes that appear effortless. When she comes out of the last spin, her eyes are wide with discovery and she is smiling.

Guided by an inner rhythm that I can't hear, she moves into another series of steps, supporting herself on one leg while the other rises straight from her hip, extending over her head, and down again, two quick steps and the other leg rises in the same lithe, elegant motion that appears to defy gravity. Watching her, I notice for the first time that she is dancing en pointe, all of her weight resting on the tips of her toe shoes.

Even as I'm marveling at how she is able to do that, she gathers herself, takes several quick gliding steps and leaps into the air. Her torso and arms are flawlessly poised, her legs extended in a perfect split. She sails an impossibly great height above the floor and a similar distance across it in seeming defiance of gravity.

Returning to earth as lightly as thistledown, she looks exhilarated but a moment later, her face contorts in pain and she suddenly crumbles. To my horrified eyes, she resembles a wounded bird torn from the sky.

I'm at her side instantly, gathering her into my arms. "What's wrong? Tell me!"

To my great relief, she doesn't question my presence but says only, "My leg...cramp--aaaah!" Her hand flutters to her right calf where I can see muscles contracting in what must be agonizing spasms.

Her pain stabs through me. Between yesterday's flight into the wilderness, the long hours at the piano and now this, she's pushed herself too far too fast. Worse yet, I let her do it.

Through gritted teeth, I tell her, "Just because you know how to do something doesn't mean that your body is prepared to do it."

To my horror, her eyes fill with tears. She blinks them away but not before I realize how exhausted and vulnerable she is. Cursing under my breath, I stretch her leg out and begin to carefully ma.s.sage the tightened muscles. For several long moments, she remains tense with pain but gradually her discomfort begins to ease.

When I'm sure that the spasms have stopped, I look her over carefully. She's pale and there are dark shadows under her eyes. I blame myself for giving in to her need to know herself at the expense of her physical well-being.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" I ask.

"A few hours." She looks away from me. "I'm fine. You can let me go now." With perfect if misplaced courtesy, she says, "Thank you for your help."

I scarcely hear her. So little separates us skin from skin that I can feel the rapid rise and fall of her breathing. She twists slightly but toward, not away from me. The full curve of her breast brushes against my arm.

Instantly, she stills but not before I have to remind myself in the most forceful terms that she's injured. She needs care before and above anything else.

I stand, holding her in my arms, and ignoring her murmur of surprise, carry her from the studio. The spa is a short distance away along the arcade. As we enter, the air fills with the scents of eucalyptus and lavender. Diffuse lighting glows softly. Water splashes down a wall opposite the entrance. I've always stuck to the gym but right now I'm glad that the spa exists.

"You've been pushing yourself too hard," I say, aware that my voice is suddenly thick. "Let's undo the damage."

At the far end of the spa is an area overlooking a secluded garden shielded from the rest of the palazzo by a high stone wall. The gla.s.s panels separating the interior from the garden are closed but on warmer days they can pivot to create a very private outdoor retreat. At the center of it is a large tub that is filling as we approach. Steam rises from the water frothing from dozens of whirlpool jets.

My thought is that a good long soak should ease her cramped muscles but before I get any closer, Amelia stiffens in my arms, her hands pushing against my chest.

"No!" she says. "Not there!"

She is suddenly, fiercely resistant.

"Whoa! What's wrong? It's just a whirlpool bath. It will make you feel better."

"No!"

I gaze down at her, seeing her luminous eyes filled with fear. She is so unexpected, so courageous, so challenging... What could possibly frighten her like this?

I'm tempted to ask but I can sense that she's right on the knife edge of panic. This isn't the time to push her.

"All right. If you don't want that, it's fine."

She calms as I carry her away from the whirlpool into a quiet, windowless area of the spa equipped with a ma.s.sage table and shelves filled with scented oils. At the touch of a b.u.t.ton, a sound system fills the air with the whisper of surf and the far off call of gulls.

Amelia exhales in relief but her eyes never leave me as I set her down on a padded bench. I kneel in front of her and stroke my hands down along her calves to her ankles where I encounter the silk bindings that hold her toe shoes in place.

My fingers linger on the taut ribbons twined around her limbs before I recall what it is I'm supposed to be doing. Untying them takes concentration but they finally give way, releasing the shoes with them.

Looking up, I find her watching me. Her eyes darken as I press my thumbs into the b.a.l.l.s of her feet and rotate them slowly, keeping at it until her toes curl and she makes a sound deep in her throat.

Satisfied for the moment, I stand and draw her up beside me.

Don't give her any reason to run.

"I can leave you to undress, Amelia, but I'd prefer to stay and help. It's up to you."

A tremor runs through her. Small white teeth sink into her lower lip as she considers.

Staring at her, I inhale sharply and cast around for something, anything to distract myself. Last season's stats for the "Patriots" who after a twenty-year drought finally managed to come back and win Super Bowl XCII. Design specifications for my company's next gen body armor to protect soldiers and peace keepers in the field. Even the latest P&L statements for a nanotech firm I'm considering acquiring.

On a whisper of sound, she says, "Please stay."

I close my eyes for a moment in profound thanks for whatever quirk of the Universe has decided to favor me today. When I open them again, her breathing is more ragged and her pupils are dilating.

I don't kid myself that I'm in any better shape but I am determined. That first time with her, I lost all control. That's not going to happen again. Ever.

Slowly I slide the leotard from her shoulders, remembering all too vividly how she looked on the balcony in the rain. Her lush, exquisite b.r.e.a.s.t.s hold me mesmerized for a long moment. I move on without touching them. Do that and there won't be any ma.s.sage.

At the tuck of her waist, I hook my fingers under the top of her tights and pull them off as well but leave her panties in place, partly to avoid alarming her, mostly to avoid seeing exactly how much temptation I can resist. Kneeling again, I free first one foot, then the other before tossing the garments aside.

"Lie down." I gesture to the table. "On your stomach."

As she settles herself, I coat my hands with oil scented with sage and ginger, warming it between my palms. Her beautiful face is turned to one side, her eyes closed. Dark feathery lashes fan across her pale cheek. A small furor of pain and tension lurks between her brows. I'm determined that before I'm done, it and every other remnant of stress in her will be well and thoroughly gone.

Beginning with her neck and shoulders, I work the oil into her skin with long, slow strokes. Her muscles are taut under my fingers and the heels of my hands. I wonder if she has been this way ever since awakening, suspended in a state of bewilderment, confusion and fear with inevitable physical consequences. My respect for her courage redoubles.

When my hands reach the base of her spine, I stop for a moment, step back, and study her. I can't help myself. She is quite simply perfection. Her long, slender back, the curve of her high rounded a.s.s, her slim, tapered legs all enthrall me.

I force myself to breathe in and out slowly. My c.o.c.k is so hard it's painful but I almost welcome that, determined as I am to prove to myself that I can keep control. That has never been more important to me than at the moment when she stirs slightly, her eyelids fluttering as though she is suddenly aware--and having second thoughts--about what she is allowing.

Before that goes any further, I glide my hands down the length of her legs with slow, circling motions, concentrating on easing the muscles in her calves, along the back of her thighs, and inward. I can feel the tension ebbing from her, replaced by something else entirely. She is pliant under my hands when I stop.

Softly, I ask, "How's that, better?"

Amelia makes a faint, inarticulate sound. Her delightful posterior rises a few inches off the table.

I repress a groan. She's so exquisitely responsive.