Golden Paradise Part 10

"I think you've brought me unmitigated joy the week past is what I think." He grinned. "And I'm in no position to be pa.s.sing judgment on character."

She smiled back, charmed by both his admissions. "True," she unabashedly said, happily accepting both his statements. "Why didn't she see this?" she asked then, because she wanted the detail behind his action, because she wanted the pleasure and luxury of hearing he hadn't cared for Choura as much as he did for her.

"I didn't say she didn't see this. She may have when I was gone. None of the doors are locked."

"Why?"

"Why aren't they locked?" A lifetime of evasion wasn't so easily jettisoned.

Lisaveta gazed at him with mock severity.

"It was my room," he said bluntly. "I didn't care to bring her here."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know." His reasons were not so easily disentangled from the muddle of his past. It had been a matter of survival, perhaps, for a man who'd seen his world destroyed while very young. His dark eyes held hers for a moment. "Introspection is a new concept for me, dushka. I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for the inadequacy of his answer. "It didn't seem right. Is that sufficient?"

"I'm sorry," she said, recognizing the effort he'd made in answering, "for being so insistent. It's as though I've no control over my jealousy."

"We're well matched then, sweetheart, because I must keep you by me... regardless..." He left the sentence unfinished, for each knew the difficulties evaded to bring them here together.

His shoulders seemed very wide only inches below her eye level, the breadth of his chest like a solid wall before her. His black eyes beneath his heavy brows were like a force of nature, so vibrant and intense was his glance. He was dynamic power and energy and a magnetic beauty she could no more relinquish than the earth could stop turning on its axis. With a curious finality she said, "And I want you selfishly for myself alone."

His voice was intense and gruff. "We're agreed then." She looked the most perfect woman he'd ever seen, rosy-cheeked, her golden eyes bright with spirit and pa.s.sion, her slender form dwarfed by the custom-built chair made to suit his own enormous frame. Her traveling suit blended perfectly with the royal blue of the chair as if she'd planned her wardrobe for the eventuality of this moment. The dusty-rose linen, trimmed with white organdy collar and cuffs, b.u.t.toned in steel-gray mother-of-pearl, dramatized both her femininity and warmth and he wanted her in his bed with an urgency he'd never experienced before.

"I can't wait any longer," he said, the way a young boy might. "Have I answered everything now?" Anyone knowing Stefan would have been shocked at his grave diffidence. He was not a humble man.

"Have I told you how happy you make me?" Lisaveta replied, astonished at the exhilarating bliss she felt in his presence.

"And I can make you happier," he murmured, his smile roguish and familiar, his mood restored. Adoring women were a constant in his life. He was back on familiar ground.

"Arrogant man," she whispered.

"But you need me," he whispered back, reaching for the b.u.t.tons on her jacket.

She stopped his hand. "We need each other." She waited with an arrogance matching his own.

"Yes," he said, engulfing the hand that stayed him but holding it gently in his warm palm. "We do."

They made love right there in the chair because it was most convenient for their unbridled pa.s.sion. The second time, when their frantic need had diminished slightly so they needn't so selfishly take from each other, they tested the luxury of the sable rug.

Stefan carried her after to his bed and deposited her like the Princess she was on the crested lace-trimmed pillows and white ermine coverlet. Gazing at her lying flushed with pleasure, her rich chestnut hair in silky disarray across his pillows, her golden eyes half-lidded in the drowsy aftermath of lovemaking, dressed only in Militza's pearl earrings, her slender voluptuous body close enough to touch, he said uncharacteristically, his voice a deep low growl, "You're mine." There was nothing logical in his declaration; emotion moved him, not reason.

Her lashes lifted that fraction necessary to afford him a direct remonstrance. "Temporarily," she reminded him, her own independence as stubborn as his, their personalities matched in imperiousness.

"We'll see," he replied, emotionally unwilling to relinquish her, impelled in his present need to brand her as his property. He didn't question the unorthodoxy of these sensations; he only acted on them.

"No, we won't see," she retorted, unwilling to submit when he wouldn't. The man was engaged; they'd both agreed on the limit of their holiday. Unless some facet of his life changed, which was highly unlikely, locked in as he was to the necessity of a court marriage, she wouldn't further indulge him.

"You're not in any position to resist my wishes," he quietly said, his smile the kind that might or might not extend into genuine warmth, "on my mountaintop."

"Are we talking more of your archaic notions of captivity?"

"Call them what you will. I'm not concerned with your choice of words."

"I won't be dealt with as an object of your obsessions," she reminded him, gazing boldly up at him as though she weren't lying nude in his bed hours from the nearest hint of civilization.

She saw his struggle to respond congenially to her words and saw, too, the enormous control necessary to bring his wild impulses to heel. "I keep forgetting," he said, moving away from her and striding with a naturalness unconstrained by his nudity to a small liquor cabinet, added no doubt when his boyhood was past, "you want to be equal." He said it benignly, as an overture of peace, unaware of the inherent repudiation in his statement.

His words, however benevolent in spirit, were the same challenge Lisaveta had faced all of her life. They brought her to a sitting position in the middle of his ermine bedcover.

"I don't wish to be argumentative," she said in a voice of suppressed emotion, watching him pour some of the local liquor into a small gla.s.s, "but it's not that I wish to be equal, I am."

She'd been raised to be equal, had sufficient wealth to be equal, was educated by a great number of tutors to be more than equal to most men and had consequently never felt inferior as a woman.

"Sorry," Stefan apologized, "of course," and lifting the gla.s.s to his mouth, he swallowed the fiery spirits. His apology was the mindless variety one automatically expressed when b.u.mping into someone accidentally or stepping on someone's toes in a crush. "There now," he said, placing the empty gla.s.s back on the cabinet, "have I told you lately how I adore your very sweet stiff-backed pride?"

His grin was intimate and effortless and Lisaveta wondered how many times he'd evaded controversy with that grin.

"I'm not seventeen," she quietly retorted, annoyed with his repertoire of avoidance.

"You look seventeen, dushka, word of honor." He had no intention of arguing over who had more power. While he understood her need to challenge the inequalities, from his male point of view, the world offered her little chance of succeeding. He'd been in positions of supreme power too long to have any delusions about the position of women.

"Do women have to be young to please you?" Sweet malice and condemnation colored her soft tone.

He'd reached the bed as she finished speaking and he inhaled softly as if with restraint before he quietly said, "No, darling, they don't, and I don't want to fight. I do that every day in a much more b.l.o.o.d.y fashion than you could ever imagine. I want only to love you and hold you and make you smile, and if apologizing for all the inequities to women of the past millenium will help, I offer that apology." He looked down at her, enormous in his towering height and breadth of shoulder, his eyes dark and heated and strangely seductive in the harsh masculinity of his features. "There now, is my blanket apology accepted?" His grin broke dazzling white against the swarthiness of his bronzed skin. "Or do I have to beat you into submission?"

She grinned back and sighed herself, realizing the futility of their stalemated issues. "Incorrigible man. Are you beyond reform?"

Sitting down on the bed then, he pushed her backward with the lightest pressure. "Reform me, darling," he murmured, following her down, lying atop her so she felt only the silk of his muscles and none of his weight. His smile was breathtaking and a breath away. "You've twenty days."

"Somehow," Lisaveta murmured, her mouth so close to his that tiny vibrations of sound pa.s.sed between them, her eyes matching the teasing in his, "I don't think you're serious."

"I'm serious," he demurred, adjusting her hips a scant inch to accommodate him. "I've never been so serious," he unseriously said.

She hit him.

He responded by playfully nipping her earlobe.

At which point she tried to squirm away in sportive frolic.

Her small struggles amused him and aroused him, and the kiss he took from her was lush and endless and sweetly benevolent.

"I will reform you," Lisaveta breathlessly whispered when her mouth was released at last, her declaration only half in jest.

"I look forward to my schooling," Stefan softly replied, sliding her up the mellow ermine so he could settle between her legs. "Tell me, Countess," he murmured a moment later, his chin resting on her thigh, his eyes black and liquid with pa.s.sion, his hands moving to ready her for his tongue, "when you feel I've made... progress."

All thought of anything beyond insensate pleasure disappeared from her mind as Stefan's tongue slipped into her. He licked and stroked, the taste of her blending with the distinctive flavor of their lovemaking, his own body reacting to the intemperate welcome of hers.

They were a matched pair, he thought, in pa.s.sion and desire, a combination of personalities so perfectly meshed he could almost feel her urgency in his own body. When she moved to refine the tactile sensations more exquisitely, a flare of excitement raced through him, and when she moaned in luxurious gratification, the muted sound echoed in his own mind.

Then he realized with a start that she was inexplicably moving away from him, a teasing smile of undisguised allure on her face. "I think I'll rest for a while," she purred. She was all feline grace and temptation... and she was lying a full two feet away, her weight resting on both her elbows, her eyes indolent under half-lowered lashes.

"I think you're lying," he said, his voice low and husky. "I think you can't even wait a minute for what you want." He was sprawled opposite her, his bronzed skin dark against the ermine, his heavy brows mildly raised in mocking remonstrance, his smile amused.

"Is this a contest?"

"Not from here it isn't." There was undisputed confidence in his tone.

"Are you always so superior?"

"I prefer... realistic," he answered very softly. "Now don't move and I'll make us both happy." She moved.

She almost managed to escape the bed. Almost.

With lightning speed he lunged across the bed, his fingers closing around her ankle just before her foot hit the floor. Rolling over on his back, he scooped her into his arms in a single diving motion, depositing her on his stomach with effortless finesse.

"So you're physically stronger," Lisaveta begrudgingly said, but she was smiling.

"Do I have to apologize for that?" He was playing her game with lighthearted boyishness.

"Actually, it has its advantages." Her voice was a rich contralto, her golden eyes heated.

He laughed out loud and, reaching out, gathered her into his arms and rolled over her so she was pinned beneath him. "Beg me," he said, his smile angelic.

"With your libido," she whispered, her own smile sunshine bright and a.s.sured, "I don't have to."

"Maybe I have willpower."

"Not with me you don't."

She was right, but anyone knowing Stefan in the past would have been fascinated at his lack of control and his lack of concern at his lack of control.

"It must be your intelligence," he teased, "attracting me."

"No doubt," she ironically replied.

"And perhaps a touch of your hot-blooded Kuzan l.u.s.t," he added, his face very close to hers, his dark hair brushing her cheeks, the feel of his body an invitation to pleasure.

"I thought maybe there was something more than my mind," she lazily murmured, "that interested you..." She moved minutely beneath him, her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s silken friction against the crisp hair of his chest, her legs sliding comfortably around his. "It's just a wild guess," she added, reaching up to touch his lips with her tongue, "you understand."

"Good guess," he murmured, gliding into her so gently she could count the exquisite seconds in her mind before she was filled with him, bliss so flooding her senses she felt heaven must be near and if she looked up past the diamond stars she'd see angel toes. And when he was deep inside her, he made it even better. He moved that minute distance more so her breath caught in her throat, white flame racing hotly through her blood. His rhythm was slow when he began moving in her, penetrating and withdrawing with an expertise that he'd learned very young brought women to a pitched and tempestuous climax, to a screaming panting climax. And she answered the deliberate driving motion of his lower body with her own fevered pa.s.sion.

"I'll beg," she breathed, short of breath and clinging to him sometime later when he'd stopped for the shortest interval to kiss her parted lips. She'd reached the point where she was going to peak without him and she wanted him with her.

"No need, dushka," he softly murmured. "I only wanted to kiss you... There." His smile was indulgent as he slid into her once more. "Is that better?"

She couldn't answer because her mind was exploding with pleasure. She couldn't answer because words were incidental to the awesome rapture singing through her blood and through every quivering shuddering nerve in her body.

He met her pa.s.sion then with his own, understanding her wishes with an unspoken comprehension that was partly skill and partly intrinsic emotion. They climaxed together, falling over the edge of the world onto soft white ermine.

He opened his eyes first and thought himself the luckiest of men. Twenty days left, he reflected, with the extravagant Countess.

Lisaveta's lashes rose with effort long moments later. She was new to the excessive sensuality of Stefan's companionship, or relatively new, and she didn't have his stamina. "I want to sleep," she murmured.

His smile was unselfish and accommodating. "Sleep, darling, as long as you wish." He had twenty days left in paradise.

Chapter Eight.

After Haci and the troop were dismissed the next morning, the days of their holiday continued in delight and...innovation. It was also a time of unalloyed happiness. In some small ways the Prince came to understand the nature of Lisaveta's independence. At least he tried, she indulgently thought. But steeped as he was in the culture of the Caucasus, Oriental in its social and political traditions, he had deep-seated traditions to reconcile.

His mother's family, while Georgian for centuries and thus Christian, were Persian in heritage and suzerains over large Kurdish tribes-nominally Muslim in religion, although their shaman past was still an integral part of life. These native tribes of Central Asian extraction were warrior cultures in which males were supreme, training for war a way of life and women's concerns incidental to their existence. Stefan had grown up in their midst.

His father had been born in Saint Petersburg, but he'd spent his adult life subduing the Caucasus and then ruling it for the Tsar. Field Marshal Bariatinsky had loved the mountain region and its exotic, exuberant, often violent life. The warrior culture spoke to his own soldier's soul.

Conditioned as Stefan was by a society in which harems were the norm, where warfare was the only occupation for a man, where the larger concerns of imperial expansion overrode personal interests, he was making conscious adjustments in his sentiments to accommodate Lisaveta's different perception of the world. He was trying to accommodate her notions of equality, her inexperience outside of the sphere of literary scholarship, and what he considered an idealistic vision.

She noticed his tolerance for her beliefs and his constraint when he couldn't agree. He tried not to argue, although their philosophies were at times starkly opposed. She, too, trod tightly when discussing controversial topics.

For the first time in her life, Lisaveta was experiencing a time spent purely for pleasure. For many years, she'd dealt with solitary scholarship and dusty tomes, with linguistic detail, not with this dizzying, intoxicating delirium of feeling. She was, as it were, on holiday from the circ.u.mstances of her life.

For his part, Stefan experienced not so much a break from the amus.e.m.e.nts of his past as a heightened awareness of what pleasure could be. A pleasure amplified beyond the physical, a pleasure so intense and joyous he woke at night and gently hugged Lisaveta to a.s.sure himself his sensations were real. In the days of their mountain retreat he felt again the unconditional happiness of his early childhood before he grew old enough to realize his family wasn't like others: His mother wasn't married to his father but to another man; his grandparents were his legal guardians to protect his legacy from the unknown man his mother had once married; his parents' profound love was mysteriously measured by a society as quick to punish as adore. And his long-held and dearly bought cynicism diminished in direct proportion to his happiness.

They bathed in the flower-bordered pool dammed up above the courtyard, warmed by their love to withstand the brisk temperatures of mountain streams, and rubbed each other dry amid moss-covered stones and verdant ferns, only to fall prey to the sensations provoked. The pool was their garden of Eden, their own green paradise, and they swam in the sunlight and moonlight and made love in the cool slipperiness of the water and on the scented banks of the stream.

"Will I last twenty days?" Stefan gasped one afternoon as he collapsed beside Lisaveta, his pa.s.sion momentarily spent but his desire for her insatiable.

"At least I know why your reputation is so formidable," she sweetly replied, her own breathing ragged.

Her tone brought his head around and he looked at her from under his hand thrown across his forehead. "Are we being catty?" he replied, his mouth lifted in a grin.

"How do you ever find time to fight the Tsar's battles?" she said in a tone that was definitely feline.

"It's your fault," he bluntly said, although the kiss he gave her mitigated his words.

"Don't blame me for your satyric ways. I met you only a fortnight ago while your reputation has been circulating about the Empire for years."

"Much exaggerated, dushka," was his negligent reply.

"Oh, really... this is an aberration, then."