Cheryl Holt (26 page)

“You didn’t tell me I had to be naked!”

“Well, I’m telling you now.”

Amanda gave a hard jerk, and Pamela stood, nude and shivering, an arm across her bosom, the other over her crotch. Amanda walked around, assessing her, evaluating the competition.

Pamela’s body was different from Amanda’s more mature one, but Michael would probably enjoy it. Her breasts were pert, her waist tucked, her hips flared. Her pussy, with its dusting of blond hair, was inviting, tempting, her chastity ripe for the plucking.

When Michael awoke, Amanda couldn’t imagine him declining to feast. What sane man would forego an amenable, compliant virgin who’d crawled into his bed?

She grinned. Maybe the three of them would engage in some trysts, after all. It might be amusing to watch and assist while he sawed away between Pamela’s immaculate thighs. Amanda would garner no small amount of satisfaction from holding Pamela down if she resisted.

Pamela was whimpering and quaking, her knees knocking, and Amanda fetched her bag, carrying in a jar of red cosmetic coloring. She daubed some of it on her finger, and clasped Pamela to her side, rubbing the crimson gel round and round Pamela’s nipples. The tiny buds swelled and tightened, and the motion revolted Pamela, so Amanda kept on much longer than necessary.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Pamela sniveled.

“We’re emphasizing your titties, which will heighten Michael’s interest. He might even kiss you here.”

“I’d die if he did!”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Never!” Pamela claimed. “I never will.”

Amanda’s hand slithered down, and she caressed Pamela between her legs, even going so far as to push a finger into her wet, unsullied sheath. The deed was actually quite exciting, more erotic than Amanda could have envisioned, and it occurred to her that she might someday seduce Pamela, herself.

Why not? It could be very entertaining, and who was to prevent her?

“He might kiss you here, too,” Amanda noted, stroking back and forth, as Pamela struggled to break free. “If he does, you’re to lie peacefully quiet and allow him to proceed. In fact, you must permit him to attempt whatever he wishes.”

“I won’t let him!” Pamela mutinously stated.

Amanda shoved her away. “Do you want to be his wife or not? Or would you rather have him throw you out without a penny? I thought you were adult enough to go through with this, but if you’re not . . .” Her sentence trailed off, and she shrugged as if the end result didn’t
matter to her either way. “I guess this was a mistake. You really are still a child, so we’d better call it off.”

Pamela was torn, and she stared at Amanda, then Michael, then Amanda again. Ultimately, she shook her head. “No.”

“Then stop arguing with me and climb up on the bed.”

“All right.”

Thoroughly cowed, Pamela complied, but she scooted around Michael, being careful not to connect with any anatomical parts, and Amanda observed in frustration. Pamela was stiff as a board, as unflirtatious as a rock. How would she ever pull this off?

“Snuggle yourself to him,” Amanda directed.

“I don’t want to touch him!”

“Oh, for bloody sake! Am I to do everything?”

Amanda crawled to her and rolled Pamela, posing her so that she looked as if she belonged next to him, instead of having been dropped in against her will.

“Your hand should be here.” Amanda placed it on the center of his chest. “The instant someone comes in, you should be massaging in circles. You have to appear as if you’re enjoying yourself, as if you’ve both done something you oughtn’t. Can you figure out how to seem ecstatic and guilty at the same time?”

“I . . . I think so.”

Amanda gripped Pamela’s leg and draped it over Michael, and as she pressed Pamela’s loins to his thigh, she took another moment to toy with Pamela’s privates.

“Keep yourself spread wide,” Amanda instructed. “This spot must be flattened to him.”

“Quit mauling me!”

“I’m showing you what Michael will be doing on a
regular basis, but he’ll be much more rough. All men are—as you’re about to learn.”

“I’ll never succumb!” Pamela vowed.

“As if you’d have a choice!”

If Pamela wound up as his bride, poor Michael was in for a life of miserable connubial fornication, which would improve Amanda’s predicament enormously. Michael liked his women to be wild and willing, and if Pamela was a whining, frigid nag, he would need the solace that only Amanda knew how to provide.

Amanda slid to the floor, more than ready to be finished with the entire sordid business.

“Where are you going?” Pamela demanded. “You can’t mean to leave me alone with him.”

“He’s out cold. Haven’t you noticed?”

“He might wake up.”

“I’m planning on it.”

“What if he does? What should I do?”

Her hysterics were beginning to grate, and Amanda prayed for patience. “I told you: You are to smile and do whatever he says.”

“I don’t have any clothes on!”

“Precisely.”

As if the drug was wearing off, Michael stirred and groaned. Pamela yelped and leapt away, but Amanda dragged her over and repositioned her so that she was wrapped around him.

“He’s coming to!” Pamela whispered. “What if he’s angry?”

Amanda assessed Pamela, her shapely breasts, her sweet, lush puss. “Trust me: He might be a lot of things, but he won’t be angry.”

“But . . . but—”

“I can’t wait with you,” Amanda said, cutting her off. “I have some last-minute details to clear up. You absolutely can’t depart until Miss Barnett sees you. If he rouses before I return, you have to remain with him, even if he attempts to be rid of you. Do you understand?”

Pamela gulped. “I understand.”

“He’ll be a tad groggy at first, and you need to convince him that you’ve been here for quite a while. We’ve rehearsed what you’re to tell him.”

“Yes.”

“The same for Miss Barnett. Do you remember the words you’re to utter when she enters?”

“Yes,” she repeated.

“Good.” Amanda nodded. “I’ll be back with her as soon as I can. Try to look surprised. Try to look happy.”

“I will.”

Barnett should have heeded Amanda’s warnings, but she’d refused to walk the wisest path, and for that, she would be so sorry. Amanda always got her way, and this situation would be no different.

 18 

“Are you going to place a bet or not?”

“I’m thinking; I’m thinking,” Alex muttered as he glanced around the table. The other players weren’t the sort who’d take his markers. If he mentioned Michael’s name, and swore Michael would square any debt, they’d laugh, then proceed to mayhem.

Though he was out of money, he was positive he could win. He felt it deep in his bones. He had to recoup what he’d lost, but he was befuddled by drink, by lack of sleep and food, and couldn’t make lucid judgments.

How had he come to be in the seedy establishment? Why was he wagering with such a rough crowd? Was it night? Or was it morning? The building had no windows, so he couldn’t see outside.

“Well, mate,” one of the gamblers asked, “what’s it to be? In or out?”

“Out.” Alex threw down his cards.

“You can use your pocket watch,” the fellow cajoled. “Can’t he, gents? Same as cash.”

The others nodded in agreement, and there was an air about them that Alex didn’t like. It dawned on him that they might have been cheating. At a time when his fingers were clumsy and his mind scrambled, they’d quickly stripped him of every cent.

“No.” Michael had given him the watch on his eighteenth birthday. It was his prized possession. He could never part with it. “Thank you for the game.”

He stood, when he noticed that he was blocked in. When had they shifted their chairs?

“I really like that watch,” the dealer mentioned.

“Sorry, but you can’t have it.”

The man snickered, and an ominous frisson of fear trickled down Alex’s spine. He’d soldiered with many despicable villains, had done things that would turn any sane man’s stomach, so he wasn’t afraid of much, but he was by himself, with no one to protect his flank.

His situation was precarious, his enemies having formed an impenetrable wall, so he took the only possible action. He grabbed the table, piled high with money, and tipped it over. Precious coins rolled everywhere, and tavern patrons hooted with glee and scooped them up.

“I’ll kill you for that,” the biggest man vowed, and together, they lunged.

Alex fought like a madman, but they kept attacking. He was hit and hit and hit. Eventually, one of them pulled a knife, which Alex dodged successfully through many wild swings, but not all of them.

The blade sunk into his chest. Blood squirted into the air, and he couldn’t breathe. The room faded to black, and he crumpled to his knees, then fell to the floor. He tried to rise, but he couldn’t move. Somebody rummaged through
his pockets, while somebody else slipped his watch off its chain.

No one in the bar came to his aid, no one intervened, though from far away, he heard a male voice say, “Leave the poor sod alone. He’s had enough trouble.”

Alex was on his back and staring up at the ceiling. He was detached, serene, as if he were hovering over his torso and looking down on it from above. Vaguely, he wondered if he was dying, and he thought that he probably was. The ruffian’s knife was firmly wedged, though strangely, he couldn’t feel it. The wound was bleeding profusely, but there was no pain.

If Mary could see me, what would she think?

The gloomy reflection slithered by, but he couldn’t focus on who Mary was or why she was important.

A tavern maid strolled by, the hem of her skirt brushing his battered face. She leaned down. “You still alive, love? Can’t believe that ya are.”

He concentrated hard so that he could inquire, “What day is it?”

“It’s Saturday.” She patted his hand and walked away, and he attempted to cry out to her. He was very cold, and very scared, and he didn’t want her to go, but he couldn’t form the necessary words. Not that she would have helped him. To her, he was just another drunk.

Resigned to his fate, he chuckled morosely. For such a long while, he’d been praying to die, had chased mortality with a reckless abandon, and now that his demise was imminent, he wished he’d pursued a different course. There was so much left unaccomplished, so many pleasures he hadn’t enjoyed.

“Farewell,” he murmured to no one in particular.

There was something he was supposed to do on Saturday, but he couldn’t remember what it was. The room grew darker, the sounds fainter, and he shut his eyes.

Quiet and forlorn, Mary sat on the edge of the bed, her hips barely perched on the mattress. She was anxious to leap up and be on her way. Her traveling cloak was on and tied, her valise packed and resting by her feet. Her pulse hammered with equal amounts of dread and excitement.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, but she didn’t react. In the past few hours, many people had been by. In the beginning, she’d jumped at the slightest noise, certain it would be Alex and that they would actually go to Scotland.

Since the night she’d pressed him for a marriage proposal, she hadn’t seen him. At his initial absence, she’d been panicked, had agonized that she might have pushed him away, but as time had worn on, she’d convinced herself that he was having a last fling before tying the knot, or that he was finalizing plans for the journey north.

She’d been so sure of him. How could she have been so wrong?

Dejected and crestfallen, she rubbed her stomach, terrified that he might have planted a babe. While she’d advised him she wasn’t increasing, she was starting to fret. Ordinarily, she was regular as the moon, but her monthlies were late, and the sole occasion it had occurred previously was when she’d been pregnant with Rose.

What if she was with child? How would she explain her condition?

If Alex didn’t fetch her, as he’d promised, she’d never tell a soul who the father was, would never admit in a
thousand years what a foolish, foolish sin she’d committed. She would take her secret to the grave.

A more fleet stride rushed down the hall, and momentarily, her daughter knocked. Mary kicked her valise under the bed.