The Pleasure Slave (4 page)

“Would those things bring you enjoyment,” he said, a feral glint entering his mystical eyes, “they would be mine to do.”

His words surprised her and should have made her happy, but suddenly Julia was overwhelmed with pity for him, to always be reliant on someone else’s pleasure. Other men probably dreamed of being caught in just such a circumstance. A sexual object. Not this man. He was tense and edgy, and self-loathing radiated from the hard stance of his body.

Silence permeated the room for a long while.

Julia didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to tell him that could make the situation more bearable for him. She felt a bombardment of guilt for even suggest
ing he do those awful things for her. Well, no more. Really, what did she need a slave for? Nothing, that’s what. She enjoyed cleaning her home, cooking her own meals—not mud pies—and she didn’t like others handling her antiques, unless they planned to buy them.

She would
not
treat this man as a slave. He was a human being and deserved more. She’d treat him like the big brother she’d always wanted.

Just admit it, Julia. You simply don’t have the courage to take him up on what he’s really offering.

She gulped. “What’s your name?”

“Most call me Pleasure Slave, or simply Slave.”

Pleasure Slave?
“I’m not calling you that.” The name was too erotic, too sexual. “Do you have a name that doesn’t have anything to do with the bedroom? Like John or Phil.”

A pause, then, “Tristan.”

“Tristan,” she repeated, liking the sound. It suited him, being both sensual and unique. “That’s what I’ll call you.”

“If that is your desire.” He gave her a slow, leisurely smile that held a hint of genuine appreciation.

Her heart rate kicked into overtime, the impact of that take-no-prisoners grin leaving her reeling. Good Lord, the man belonged on the cover of
GQ.
Julia glanced at his sword. Okay, scratch
GQ.
He belonged on the front page of
Hunky Barbarians.

“I will hear your name, little dragon.”

Annoyance replaced her admiration and launched her quickly to her feet. “You can stop referring to me as
a tiny fire-breathing lizard. I’m not
that
unattractive. And for your information, I’m not little. I’m normal. You just happen to be excessively tall.”

His lips twitched, and his eyes went from lavender to the purest blue. “So I say again—I will hear your name.”

“Call me Julia,” she replied grudgingly. “Or Jules, if you must.”

“I shall keep that in mind.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I am now ready to hear what you desire of me.”

“I want nothing from you,” she hastened to assure him. “Absolutely nothing.”

Features tightening, he said, “Why did you summon me on three separate occasions if you wished not to make use of me?”

She shrugged. “The first time I thought you were an intruder.”

“Ah.” Like the flip of a switch, he lost his dark glower and his lips once again twitched with amusement. “And you thought to defend yourself from an Imperian warrior with this karate of yours?”

Bristling at his superior tone, she locked her fists on her hips and glared. “My hands are deadly weapons, you know. You would die if I karate-chopped your neck.”

“I believe you,” he said. “I am quite sure I would die of laughter.”

Even as her heart accelerated at the sheer masculine beauty he represented, Julia fought a surge of anger. The man had a lot of nerve! First he scared the crap out of her. Then he called her a tiny dragon—did she really
look like a lizard? Now he had the gall to insult her self-defense skills.

I would die of laughter,
she silently mimicked.

A hidden part of her wanted to slap Tristan upside the head with a jackhammer. Since physical violence was against the law—and she didn’t relish being locked inside a cell with a woman named Big Bertha—Julia opened her mouth to offer him a stinging retort. His next question stopped her, however.

“Where is your husband?” He uttered a low, rumbling chuckle that purred and soothed and probably sent women to their knees. “You did not kill him with karate, did you?”

Uh-oh. Caught. Julia’s animosity toward Tristan drained as
her
sin surfaced. A piece of lint on the hem of her white tank top suddenly became fascinating.

“Did you kill him?” All traces of humor vanished from Tristan’s voice. “By Elliea, you did! Where did you place the body?”

“Look,” she said, twisting the sheer fabric in knots. “I’m not actually married.”

Tristan blinked. “Then where is your man?”

“Technically, I don’t have a man.”

“Not a father? Brother? Protector?”

Jaw clenched, cheeks red, she shook her head.

“So you spoke an untruth.” It was a statement, not a question, laced with puzzlement rather than ire.

“I thought you were an intruder, remember? What else was I supposed to say? We’re all alone so don’t worry about the neighbors hearing my screams while you kill me?”

“I am glad you do not have a man.”

Julia gulped, not liking the sudden, possessive perusal he gave her. “Mind if I ask why?”

“Jealous husbands are a nuisance.”

Not exactly the answer she expected. In fact, she was offended for married men and women everywhere. Because of Tristan’s profession, he probably didn’t know much about relationships. To arm him with knowledge, she launched into a speech about vows, monogamy and the joys of commitment. Her sister often said Julia should have been a lawyer. Tristan’s eyes soon glazed and a yawn hovered at the edges of his mouth. “Don’t you believe in the sanctity of marriage?” she ended.

“Aye. Yet I must do as my
guan ren
commands.” His steely tone scraped the very air around them.

She had to assume
guan ren
meant master. “I’m sorry,” she said, hoping to soothe him. “Being a slave must be difficult at times.”

“Such a life is not difficult,” he grumbled. “Such a life is torture. Every minute of every day.”

Lord, there had to be some way to help him. The prospect of owning another human being was beginning to make her queasy. “Is there any way I can free you?”

He didn’t answer for a long time, his features changing expression like the click of a camera. Hope. Disappointment. Anger. Finally all emotion cleared and he said simply, “Nay, you cannot. What is required is impossible. I must find my one true love.”

“Why is that so impossible?” Surely this man had
loved, and been loved, by thousands. For people like him, gorgeous and self-assured, love acted as a magnetic force. He would have no problem finding his soul mate. If he were plain like her, however, she would understand his difficulty.

That muscle was ticking in his jaw again, and she could tell he didn’t want to answer. Then, as if propelled by a force greater than himself, he spoke. “Love is an emotion I am unable to experience.”

She blinked up at him. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nay, I am not.”

He was serious—deadly serious—and since he had a sword, she wasn’t going to try to change his mind. Julia rubbed her temples.
What am I going to do with this tall, dark and sinfully delicious pleasure slave?

She could panic.

No. That wouldn’t do. Having grown up with extremely volatile parents, she preferred to calmly wade through her problems.

She could return the box to the flea market.

No again. The dealer’s market only ran once a month, and the vendors always changed. The previous owner might not be there and, more than likely, he wouldn’t refund her money. Besides, she felt sorry for Tristan. No telling what another woman might force him to do. Kiss her, lick her, touch her…

Julia’s back straightened and she squared her jaw. No question about it, she was keeping him.

“Look,” she said. “I’ll be honest. I’m not interested in having a slave, but I’d love a big-brother type.” Ig
noring his dubious expression, she continued. “Anyway, we need to talk, to iron out some details.”

“Such as?” he asked, though his expression made it quite clear he was really thinking,
Hush your mouth, wench.

“We need to discuss exactly what we expect from each other. Where you’ll stay, what you’ll do. That sort of thing.” She motioned with a wave of her hand, indicating the chair directly across from her. “Please, have a seat.”

Though the scowl he offered her said he’d rather skin her alive with his sword, he folded his long, gorgeous legs under the table. The chair creaked in protest.

Giving him a grateful smile, she sat down, as well. “Where to begin?” she muttered. She’d never been in this situation before, with a half-naked man across from her. Should she begin with the sleeping arrangements, or casually work her way around the subject?

A moment later, he grabbed the reins of the conversation himself. “Where am I?” he asked.

“America. Sante Fe, New Mexico, to be exact.”

“Santa Fa? Am-erica.” One dark brow arched, and confusion flittered in the crystalline pools of his eyes. “I do not know of these places.”

Not know of the mighty U. S. of A.? “How long were you trapped inside that box?”

“I last emerged eighty-nine seasons ago.”

“And before that?”

“I was blessed with twelve seasons alone, then emerged in Arcadia. Before that? I hardly recall.”

Seasons must be years, Julia thought. She studied the smooth skin of his face. “Just how old are you, Tristan?”

“Almost one thousand and five hundred seasons, I think.” He shrugged. “I stopped counting several centuries ago.”

Her jaw nearly dropped to the floor. She hadn’t expected that. He was a living, breathing antique, yet he looked so handsome, so virile. “Do you eat lots of bran or something?”

His chin tilted to the side. “I do not understand.”

“It’s just that you appear so young. Too young to be so old.”

Bitterness hardened his features, like clay drying into pottery. “Once the binding spell was cast, I ceased aging. A
courtesy
of the black-haired sorceress, Zirra.”

Sorceress? Binding spell? “She cursed you? But…why?”

“Why does any woman curse a man?”

Because she’d been spurned
hung in the air unsaid.

“This Arcadia you mentioned,” Julia said. “Is that where you’re from?”

“Nay. I hail from Imperia.”

Arcadia. Imperia. Both were names she didn’t recognize. Julia’s stomach tightened as her thoughts spiraled off in a direction she didn’t like. “Are either of those places, um, on Earth?”

His lips thinned into a tight line. “Nay.”

Okay. The thought of life on another planet or dimension or
whatever
stretched her imagination to the limit.
Remember, Julia, your own personal pleasure slave is
sitting mere inches from your reach. So…interplanetary travel? Not too hard to believe, actually.

“If we’re from—” she had to swallow her disquietude before she could continue “—from different planets, how do you know my language?”

“Another spell, this one cast by an exiled member of Gillradian society. Whatever land I visit, that language do I speak.”

“Magic language. Of course. I’m surprised I didn’t guess.”

His warm, rich chuckle rained over her like a silky caress. “I think you speak another untruth, little dragon.” Still grinning, his gaze circled the kitchen. “What manner of home is this?”

“What do you mean?”

“It is…so small.”

“Small?” A laugh bubbled past her throat. “You’ve got to be kidding. This place is three thousand square feet.”

“Of your feet, mayhap.”

Considering she’d grown up in a two-room adobe hut, this place suited her to perfection. “I’ll have you know my house is not small. In fact, it’s the biggest house in the neighborhood.”

“I am sure this is fine for one so tiny as you.”

“I am not tiny, Conan.”

He shook his head. “I am Tristan, not Conan.”

“Never mind.” She waved a hand through the air. “You know, for a pleasure slave, you lack certain pleasuring skills.”

“Do I?” With a lascivious grace at odds with the
sheer size of him, he eased to his feet. “Well, then, I will have to remedy that impression immediately.”

Julia almost jumped out of her skin. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I know I won’t like it.”

“You will like it,” he vowed. “I have been pleasuring women for centuries now, and know exactly where to touch you to make you scream.”

Oh, my holy Lord most high. “I’m sure you do, but I swear to God I don’t need a demonstration.”

“Oh, I think you do.” And with that, he approached, striding around the table and straight toward her.