Slave Wife (14 page)

He looked down at her lustrous copper hair. “Would you like to come with me?” She nodded up and down, vigorously, against his chest. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to his car.

LaVeau regained consciousness in an awkward crumpled pile on the church floor. His head felt as if it had blown apart. Slowly, painfully the pieces connected and the awful memory returned.

He remembered looking down on that wondrous form, remembered the shining blade hurtling toward her insubstantial throat. He remembered the vast power and then – again his head threatened to explode – the breathtaking swell of love that brought the world’s end.

  
Slowly, gently, he tried to shake off the throbbing pain. Tears filled his eyes and ran down his hard cheeks. He couldn’t kill her. He loved her. The knowledge had hit him like a cannonball as the knife descended in his hand. Blackness had risen, roared around him, rending mind and body and knocking him flat.

And her also.
His last memory was of the dazzling face, an instant before radiant with tranquillity, crumple into a masque of horror and fear … and of her silent bolt for the door. The image of her graceful, so vulnerable back outlined by candlelight through the thin dress as it vanished from his life would, he was certain, haunt him forever.

Desperately he turned his head and surveyed the scene. His heart ached unbearably. Now she was gone and somehow he knew she was not coming back. His aunt would see to that. Love was not an acceptable or useable emotion.

His hands gripped his robe’s front. He wanted to rip the cloth apart, to scream and tear his hair. What had they done with her? What had they done with his Teresa?

Ward stood on the broad veranda and admired the big black machine as it purred out of the trees and onto the landscaped circle fronting his house. Mercedes 500 series. Should he have gotten one of those? he momentarily wondered. But no, he liked his Range Rover.

The car’s heavy door swung noiselessly open. A slim figure dressed in an elegant charcoal suit pivoted long legs to the gravel and stood with startling grace. His loose curls glowed obsidian in the clear sunlight. As he sauntered toward the house, he lifted a hand in greeting. Ward descended the short staircase to meet him.

“Reza! Welcome to my home.” Ward restrained his desire to examine the unusually handsome man more closely. He’d save that. He ushered Reza, who peered this way and that with great interest, into the heavily trimmed foyer with its grand staircase, bevelled panelling and inverted finials. “Can I offer you some tea or coffee, or perhaps some lemonade?” Among a great deal of other information, Ward had learned that Reza was Muslim and therefore didn’t consume alcohol.

“Lemonade would be lovely.” Reza accent was virtually unidentifiable – Ward thought he heard both American and British English overlaying traces of more ornate dialects – only exceedingly refined.

Reza smiled with utmost charm into Ward’s face. “But I do hope you’ll give me a tour of the house.” He looked around appreciatively. “It appears quite remarkable.”

“Thank you. Certainly I’ll give you a tour, though keep in mind I’ve only begun to renovate.” Ward smiled drolly. “I’m still getting to know the house.” His expression reflected his abashed perfectionism. “I have to think about things for awhile. It’s taken me months to make decisions on three rooms and they were easy.” Ward slid back the high pocket doors to the front parlour, an old-fashioned, somewhat dark room with thick leaded windows, a scroll backed Victorian suite of horsehair sofas and armchairs, overgrown plants and handmade antique lace curtains. He waved an arm into the room. “I’m not touching them. So. Tour first or lemonade?”

“Well,” now Reza smiled wryly, “my family would no doubt disapprove – they’d think I’m far too westernized – but let’s tour. Then we can sit and have a leisurely talk.”

“Why don’t we start upstairs. We can walk through the main floor on the way to the rear porch, which has a spectacular view of the
Potomac
.” Ward started up the massive turned staircase, elegantly curving to the intricate leaded windows of the second floor landing. “Most of the upstairs rooms are empty bedrooms or sitting rooms. But the fireplaces and trim are worth seeing – at least a sampling of them.”

With a theatrical flourish Ward turned the ornate brass doorknobs and threw open the double doors at stair top. “I can’t seem to avoid calling this room the ‘Crystal Ballroom.’
 
You’ll see why if we make it inside.”

Reza was far too urbane to gasp but his full carmine lips widened into a broad smile and his luminous eyes twinkled. “My! My!”

Inside was chaos. The inlaid black, brown and white floor was covered end to end and up to the two huge unlit chandeliers suspended from the vaulted ceiling with iron cages and contraptions of all sizes and shapes. “I find it irresistible. The previous owners intended to empty the room but I,” Ward parodied conciliation, “so kindly offered to do it for them.” But, as usual in this, his favourite playroom, boyish enthusiasm quickly resurfaced, “I have to restrain myself from spending every minute in here exploring.”

Ward’s gaze swept the pile’s length. “It must once have been some sort of treatment room. And then all the other rooms’ equipment was dumped here to prepare the house for sale.” He laughed happily. “High tech in its day.”

Reza laughed also in a melodious tenor. “It reminds me of one of my aunts. When I was a boy she bought a big old house in
Paris
and filled it with antiques. A year later she got bored and replaced the first set of antiques with others. The next year she did the same thing. The discarded furniture, most extremely valuable, was piled impenetrably to the ceiling in a large bedroom. I squeezed and scrambled through the labyrinth imagining myself a famous archaeologist sent to make reason from it all.”

Ward pointed to one end of the room with a museum docent’s earnestness. Above a massive carved fireplace, an intricate crystalline mosaic of perhaps a hundred pieces of bevelled and etched leaded glass making up a whimsical fractured looking glass peeked out through the room’s largest cage. “There’s a big window just like that on the far wall that would be a shame not to uncover. I haven’t decided what to leave in the room.”

As Ward ushered Reza out the doors and pulled them to, he smiled mischievously. “I think you’ll find the next room in the tour very interesting.” He led Reza past several identical doors partially opened into empty bedrooms to one slightly less majestic and also closed.

Ward pulled a large antique key from his trousers’ pocket. He held it upright by its ringed handle for Reza’s inspection. “Fortunately someone was wise enough to key each floor identically.” Ward glanced eloquently at Reza as the cumbersome metal turned effortlessly in his hand. “I lubricated the locks so I don’t break my wrist.”

He swung the door open to blinding white. Every inch of the enormous bath’s wall and floor as well as a rectangular plunge pool centred on the right wall was tiled in white glowing with an aged iridescent patina. The walls were fitted with what were undoubtedly state of the art fixtures in the sanatorium’s heyday, all intricately embossed.

Ward waved his hand toward a vertical metal construction on an embossed porcelain base wedged into the corner beyond the pool. “It’s called a “Ribcage” shower. You can see why. Each of the ribs provides a therapeutic needle shower spray.” He turned toward Reza, his eyes sparkling. “Fascinating, don’t you think?”

Reza walked toward the small white ceramic tile and scrolled iron fireplace sitting on a white marble surround at room’s end but stopped before he reached it. “This is interesting.”

Though not entirely certain whether Reza referred to the unusual porcelain tub opposite the pool, which resembled a chaise lounge with its high back and low front, or the heavy black chain attached to one claw foot, Ward chose sardonic neutrality. “Yes. It must have been used for hydrotherapy treatments.”

When Reza turned bemusedly toward him, he said, feigning innocence, “Oh! You meant the chain! Yes,” again his eyes sparked with enjoyment, “I have something I’m sure will interest you.”

He motioned Reza along the chain through an open side doorway into a dark and somewhat musty room heavily draped with stiff, old and very elaborate oriental fabric into five “cooling” alcoves in which beds once sat. The chain stretched across the Chinese carpet and underneath a dressing table’s skirts. Ward paused, enjoying Reza’s avid anticipation. He called, “Teresa. Come to me.”

For a moment, nothing. Then the stiff skirts stirred. They parted and, with the chain’s slight metallic jingling, a head that even in the dim light was obviously bright carrot red poked through. Ward sensed Reza hold his breath as slowly, reluctantly, an exquisite lithe naked body, with skin as pale as the bath’s blue-veined white marble and beautiful breasts with nipples the colour of pale pink peonies, emerged.

The girl crawled to Ward, head down, hair hanging like a curtain, and buried her face in the soft black wool covering his groin. He laid his hand on her titian fleece and, just for an instant, tenderly petted her before he slipped a hand through the silken strands and gripped.

No sound escaped her blushing lips as he pulled her head back and exposed her ethereal face and vivid, abjectly tranquil blue eyes. Over his shoulder he heard Reza’s gasp. “My God! Where did you get her?”

Without taking his eyes from her, Ward said, “She ran in front of my car.”

“You’re joking.”

“Sit, Teresa.” The girl sat back on her heels, her hands clasped in her lap. Ward broke his gaze and turned to Reza. “Really.” He elaborated his voice redolent with the amazement he still couldn’t shake, ending, “I thought I was going to run my new car up a tree.”

Reza was still transfixed. “Do you know who she is?”

Ward gave a frustrated shrug. “Would you believe it, she seems to be invisible. I’ve tried everything I can think of – newspapers, accident reports, talking to the local police, even enlisting help of friends at the FBI. Nothing! It’s like she dropped from the sky or a witch materialized her.”

“She won’t tell you?”

“Actually she doesn’t talk at all or even, most of the time, make any sound,” Ward smiled sardonically, “even under stress.” He lifted a gold chain from under the narrow iron collar locked around her slender throat. “I only know her name because it’s written here.” He patted her head again and experienced an attachment he found intensely uncomfortable. “But look how calm she is,” he ran his thick fingers along the collar, “even shackled.”

“What have you done with her?” Ward heard the eagerness in Reza’s voice.

“Actually, I’d like to talk to you about that.” Reza nodded, intensely interested. “I’ve given her some minimal training but she seems to naturally fall into an animal’s role. She sleeps next to me in bed like my dog and I’ve trained her to use her hands and mouth. Quite well, I might add.”

“But I’ve been reluctant to stick my cock in her other holes. I suspect she’s a virgin.” Ward looked into Reza’s face, across which emotions tumbled over each other. “I’d appreciate your suggestions.”

“A moment.” Reza lifted his mobile to his ear and spoke in French for several minutes. “My corporate physician will be here in half an hour.”

Reza’s expressions moved far too quickly for Ward to read but their intensity was loud and clear. Nonetheless, he spoke tentatively. “What do you plan to do with her?”

Disagreeable uncertainty filled Ward. “I don’t know.”

“Would you consider selling her?” Ward whipped himself into thoughtful neutrality, hiding his disquiet.

Reza became animated. “Do you realize what she’s worth? I bet one of my Saudi clients would pay half a million for her, maybe more.”

“Though I certainly wouldn’t shirk a big wad of cash, my primary concern is finding her the right home.” Ward’s pale brow furrowed regretfully. “I find I’m just not ready for the responsibility.” He caught Reza’s eye and laughed. “I don’t have a dog or even a cat.”

“And if I do keep a piece of girl flesh full time I think I’d want one who’s not quite so compliant.” Again Ward laughed. “Debasing a reluctant object is just too much fun.” Once more he affectionately caressed the red head – which had not budged a millimetre. “Clearly, though, she’s very special. And she responds well to all sorts of subjugation, including corporal.” He paused, peering intently into Reza’s liquid eyes. “So you think you have an appropriate home for her?”

Reza’s face, which Ward now realized was pliant as Silly Putty, filled with concern. “I believe I have just the client – one who will understand her value and use her in a fitting manner.” His face morphed again, radiating dark rapture. “And if she’s truly a virgin … well, we’ll see what
Monsieur le Docteur
has to say.”

“Shall we go down and wait for him? We can quickly finish the tour on the way.” Reza nodded enthusiastically and Ward took a small key from his pocket and unlocked the chain, leaving the iron collar in place. “Teresa, put on your uniform.”

The girl crawled to the dressing table and looked back at Ward. “Yes, you may stand now.”

“She needn’t dress on my account.”

“Actually,” Ward’s tone held just a trace of discomfiture, “this is something else I’d like to discuss with you. The local woman who cooks and cleans for me is, as you might imagine, very narrow-minded. I really need a more appropriate servant.”

Reza began to respond but instead gave a small gasp as Teresa gracefully stood and bent forward to open a drawer. “My God! Look at that perfect rear! She just begs to be taken, doesn’t she!” He rolled his eyes. “It would almost be worth the loss of income to do it myself.” He smiled at Ward, who immediately recognized the consummate businessman under Reza’s glamorous packaging. “Almost.”

For several minutes both men watched in silent awe as the sylphine creature dressed. She lifted a white cotton brassiere from the drawer and, demurely turning to face the men, hooked it around her newly blossomed breasts. Only momentarily, only to lift the articles of clothing, did she turn away, clearly giving herself up for inspection.

She slipped her fair arms into a starched white blouse and slowly, meticulously buttoned it, obviously unaware of her own seductiveness. Then, in nothing but her sweet white schoolgirl’s blouse and undergarment, she stood still with bowed head while the men examined her.

“Such lovely fine pubic hair,” Reza remarked approvingly. “I, like many of my clients, enjoy this hair,” he grimaced, “but certainly not a thicket. This amount is perfect.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Ward said. “Would you like a little more time or should she continue?”

“Yes, have her continue.”

“Teresa, you may put on your skirt and shoes.” Now the girl turned away and stepped into a short, plaid pleated Catholic schoolgirl’s skirt, showing the men her long back and, again, the supple rounds of her behind.

Reza made small approving noises. Not taking his eyes off the girl as she stepped into black pumps he said, “I’m sure I can help you with the servant problem. Give me a day or two.”