Paradise Burning (29 page)

Worse yet, he was very much afraid he liked
her. Maybe . . . maybe more than that.

Karim stretched out a hand, watched its
unaccustomed quiver with almost clinical fascination. Slowly, it
came to rest on the smooth roundness of the nearest inviting
buttock. He heard a soft rasp as Nadya sucked in her breath, felt
her body shudder beneath his hand. Good. She was afraid. She should
be.

So was he.

The urge to pound out his anger, as he had
done once before, was fading. His hand moved softly over the
mounded flesh, smoothing, soothing. He should demonstrate his fury
at her betrayal. His fingers should be sinking in, inflicting
bruises, ugly reminders of his rancid soul. Instead, his index
finger slid down the back of her cleanly shaven leg. First one leg,
then the other.

She was very, very still. Not her usual
indifference, resignation, acceptance. Was she frozen by fright,
holding her breath? The thought did not give him the satisfaction
it might have a few moments earlier. As always, touching her gave
him peace. The horror at what he had become drained away. His mind
unlocked, flowing free.

Karim lifted a handful of long blond hair,
laid it gently to one side, repeating the maneuver until he had
laid bare the alluring curve of her spine. Starting at her neck—her
lovely elegant neck that held up the proud head so full of spirit
as well as beauty—he slowly traced the graceful indentation,
pausing occasionally to tease her with softly rubbing palm or
tickling fingertips.

An almost subliminal hum seemed to fill the
room as his fingers moved lower, gently cupping, then parting
Nadya’s feminine folds. Was this not why Allah had made male and
female, created the Great Difference, this perfect match of
physical parts?

For now, only his fingers moved. Feeling her
liquid heat, the soft swelling of her readiness. The intense
satisfaction of knowing he could do this to her. He, Karim Shirazi,
who was her enemy, could do what none of her customers could do.
He, and he alone, could give her pleasure. And, for a few moments,
take away the hate.

When he felt the convulsions ripple through
her body, he lowered himself onto her back, burying his face
between her shoulders, and hung on tight until her breathing
leveled and the room was once again silent around them.

She was alive. Nadya was almost afraid to
frame the thought. He had not killed her. Had not raped her.
Instead, he had given her ease. And taken none for himself.

She should hate him. And could not.

She should fear him. And could not.

Nadya bit into the bedspread to stifle her
groan of anguish. If two souls met and were stripped bare—however
soiled and frayed they might be—could their minds possibly be
enemies? Was it pity her heart felt? Gratitude? Or the faint
awakening of something far more terrifying?

Appalled, Nadya turned over, seeking escape,
only to find Karim’s head descending to the erotic pillows of her
breasts. Without volition, her fingers rose to smooth a black bushy
brow, drift down his prow of a nose, gently tease his mustache.

She smiled.

He had almost never seen her smile.

“
Your turn,” Nadya said. And offered as
sacrifice to his gleaming white teeth the erect and throbbing pink
peak, the fountain of maternal nourishment and comfort that was not
always reserved for babies and small children.

The theater was an eighteenth-century gem
imported from Scotland. Tucked inside a modern facade, the home of
the Manatee Bay Ballet was a delightful surprise. Mandy threw a
short-lived attempt at sophistication to the winds and craned her
neck to examine the graceful curves of the box seats, the
ornamentation gilding the mezzanine, the steeply angled,
high-flying sweep of the balcony above. The ballet could be awful,
she decided, and she’d still be glad they’d come.

But of course it wasn’t awful. Manatee Bay
worked hard at upholding its claim as the cultural capital of
Florida. The fledgling company could not yet afford an orchestra,
but its sound system was superb as a poignantly charming Butterfly
lived out her updated tragedy in Pearl Harbor to a medley of
everything from Puccini to Glenn Miller and Duke Ellington.

Their seats were close enough to the stage
that they could hear the thud of padded slippers on the hardwood
floor, catch an occasional sheen of sweat as the male dancers
lifted a variety of dark-haired beauties over their heads. In the
final scene Mandy had to fumble for her evening bag and attempt to
blow her nose without disturbing the woman next to her. It didn’t
matter, she discovered, because her neighbor was also fishing in
her purse for a handkerchief.

“
We could use some cheering up,” Peter
announced as they moved with the crowd down the steps toward the
parking lot. “There’s a club I’ve heard about just up the street.
Want to try it?”

Mandy wiped a knuckle under one eye. “Sure,
sounds great,” she said, her words punctuated by another sniff.

When she’d realized Peter’s invitation
to
Madame Butterfly
was a
genuine date, she’d shoved aside the trafficking implications. But,
truth was,
Butterfly
was the
story of a man who purchases a concubine, lives with her a short
time, then deserts her. Not the most ideal plot to be viewed
à deux
by Amanda Armitage and Peter
Pennington. Then again, Peter hadn’t remarried, and Mandy didn’t
have a child. And if she had, she could not imagine abandoning that
child in deliberate death, no matter how great her shame and
anguish.

A drink would be good, Mandy thought. Some
place warm, cozy, and cheerful, where all serious thought would be
vanquished by shallow, frivolous sociability.

The noise was deafening, the atmosphere
frenetic, conversation impossible. By the time Mandy and Peter
realized the club was not quite what they had in mind, they were
seated at a tiny balcony table overlooking the dance floor, snack
menus in their hands. Disco, it seemed, was alive and well in
Manatee Bay. They were only a few feet from the minuscule counter
shared by two obviously dedicated disc jockeys, and it was apparent
no moment of silence was ever going to be allowed to pollute the
club’s head-banging ambiance. If non-stop noise could ever be
described by so esoteric a word as
ambiance
.

Mandy winced as the music soared still louder
and the classic mirrored ball above the dance floor twisted in
front of her eyes, showering the dancers with iridescent sparkles.
Some seemed intent on sweeping the other dancers off the floor;
others just stood and swayed as if moving to an altogether
different beat. Something about the club just wasn’t . . . right.
Silly. It was herself, of course. She was the fish out of water,
the naive nerd who had never been in a disco club before.

They ordered drinks and nachos with
everything by the simple expedient of pointing at the desired items
on the menu. As the waiter grinned and snaked his way down one of
the narrow openings between tables, Mandy wiggled out of her chair,
trying not to disturb the person whose chair was sardined in behind
her. She tossed Peter a wave of her hand. Hopefully, he would
understand she was heading for the Ladies’ Room.

It was almost peaceful among the stalls. The
stainless steel, cold porcelain, and tile were so remarkably
soundproof Mandy was tempted to hide out for a while. Poor Peter.
She knew he had no idea what the club was like or he wouldn’t have
suggested they come here. But in this land of seniors, very few
places were open after the supper hour. Nothing to do but make the
best of it. One bright spot—it was impossible to mourn poor
Butterfly in such an atmosphere.

Mandy paused at the door, bracing herself for
reentry into the frenetic, pulsing club. With a sigh, she pulled it
open. The blast of noise, the flashing lights hit her like a
physical blow. She took a deep breath and began to weave her way
through the crowd. A couple pushed by her. Suddenly she was
stumbling, falling. Arms reached out, steadied her. A young man was
staring at her, holding her upright. “You okay?” he asked, as,
suddenly embarrassed, he let go.

“
Thank you,” Mandy said, equally
embarrassed by her clumsiness. Once again strangers, they each
moved on. Only it wasn’t clumsiness, Mandy realized. She, a
not-so-small person, had been bowled over, swatted aside like a
mosquito.
Good lord,
she
thought as she ascended the steps back up her table,
I’ve never in my life been anywhere where someone
knocked me off my feet. And without a word of apology. What kind of
place is this, anyway?

Mandy’s frown didn’t last long after Peter
flashed her a grin over a platter of nachos that was large enough
to fill the small table. Dripping with cheese, meat, black beans,
sour cream, guacamole, green onion and jalapeños, the dish was
enough to spike her spirits higher than the fat and cholesterol
count. Their salt-encrusted margaritas were equally tasty. Ah,
well, Mandy conceded, the club had its compensations. She and Peter
could always talk on the ride home. And later. In bed.

Their affair was ten days old now. That’s all
it was, of course, an affair. Mandy refused to think beyond the
moment. Thankfully—annoyingly—Peter had not breathed a word about
permanence. As for herself, pride stood like a giant sentinel
before the gates to happiness. That and the knowledge that if she
stayed with Peter, she would be giving up what she had already
refused to leave behind: her loyalty to AKA, to her parents, to
everything she had been taught was life itself.

Below, on the dance floor, a young man
floated into position directly under the slowly revolving mirrored
ball and launched into a dervish-style frenzy. Fascinated, though
slightly appalled, Mandy stared down at him. Putting aside all
comparisons with the grace and drama of ballet, this still wasn’t
art, she decided. Not even self-expression. There was a wrongness
about the young man’s heedless monopoly of the small dance floor,
his glazed expression . . . He staggered against a couple who were
still trying to dance, stumbled backwards, legs buckling. No one
was quite close enough to catch him as he fell, sprawling on his
back at a ridiculous angle on the polished hardwood. He didn’t
move.

A heavy-set man, undoubtedly the bouncer, ran
forward, quickly followed by two waiters. One minute the solo
dancer was there, the next he was gone. Straight through a nearby
unmarked door that opened, swallowing the whole entourage. For a
moment, the barest minimum of time, Mandy thought she caught a
glimpse of a familiar face. Impossible. He couldn’t be here. Not
her Iranian officer. Not Nadya’s jailer, Karim. And yet . . . this
club was a very strange place . . .

Mandy met Peter’s eyes. He gave a slight
shake of his head, raised his dark brows. So they’d found their way
into a club that tolerated drugs as long as their customers kept
their cool. When they didn’t, they got carted off as discreetly as
possible and cared for so they and their money could return another
day. None of her business, Mandy decided. She and Peter would find
their entertainment elsewhere from now on.

Another round of margaritas appeared. With a
shake of her head, Mandy took a sip of her second drink. No sense
in being wasteful.

She couldn’t possibly have seen Karim
Shirazi.

As if glued shut by some malevolent elf,
Mandy’s eyes refused to open. Insistent light sent strange patterns
flittering across the gritty surface beneath her eyelids. Something
was wrong. She had always hated to get up in the morning, but this
. . . this was different. Unsettling. Oddly menacing.

A dull ache pulsed from the base of her skull
to the top of her head in a rhythm that seemed to move in time with
the aurora borealis playing against her lids. She was thinking the
right commands: open eyes, wiggle fingers, move toes. But nothing,
absolutely nothing, was happening. Except fear was poking its way
into her unease.

And cold. Bone-chilling cold. She might not
be able to move, but she could feel. The numbing cold of an inverse
hell. Raging thirst. Scratchy skin. Odd uncomfortable lumps beneath
her crumpled body.

Dear God. Not nausea too.

Mandy gritted her teeth, willed her stomach
to be quiet. To her vague surprise, both teeth and stomach obeyed
her better than her eyelids. As the wave of nausea subsided, she
made another stab at opening her eyes. No luck. And yet her head
had cleared to the point where she could recognize that something
was seriously wrong. She might be immobilized, but her brain was
beginning to register warning signals of alarming intensity. The
problem went way beyond an early morning desire to ignore the alarm
clock or her New England conscience screaming about being late for
an appointment. It was even worse than when Peter . . .

Peter.

Mandy’s eyes popped open. She immediately
wished they hadn’t. Slitting her eyes against sunlight that sent a
lightning flash of pain through her already aching head, she
gradually focused on . . . a small dragon-like head, small beady
eyes, a tiny flickering tongue, a narrow pointed tail. The
miniature monster, frozen in startled wonder over the strange being
that had invaded its habitat, was poised inches from her nose.

Mandy sucked in her breath, swallowed
hard. This seven-inch distant cousin to an alligator was
not
a threat. Though what she was
doing eye to eye with it was something else again. The little
creature regarded her balefully before skittering off into the
safety of the tall grass.