by Mallory Rush
Jack beat someone to the barstool beside the one Rachel indicated to the slaver. It had to be the slaver.
As Rand watched her doing her job, so incredibly well she was even better than he'd dared hope, he did a double take.
For an instant he could have sworn she wasn't dressed to kill in black, but was naked beneath a sari of white gauze.
Chapter 8
Rachel's stomach rolled over for the hundredth time in ten minutes. The cucumber cool she'd felt in rehearsal was no where to be found as she confronted the real thing. Help, Rand! You were right, this is too scary and I want out! She battled the instinct to high-tail it into his arms that were less than twenty feet away.
Managing to stop her foot in mid-shake, she tilted her head so the soft lighting would play her hair to its best red advantage.
"Beautiful hair on a beautiful lady," Maurice said. At least that's how he'd introduced himself. His voice dripped enough culture for Barrymore and Olivier combined. He was so convincing that she might have bought it if her trained eye hadn't spotted some subtleties that marked him as a counterfeit:
His nails were clean but needed clipping. When she'd dropped her purse, she'd noted that his shoes could use a shine. His cologne was way too strong. Little things, telling things. A man of true wealth and breeding would have seen to the finishing touches. And he sure as heck wouldn't be squirting his mouth with breath spray as she watched and forced a smile and gushed an ingenious reply.
"I'm glad you like my hair. But really, Maurice, such an outrageous compliment, it's enough to make a woman blush."
"Don't tell me you don't get at least a dozen a day."
"Are you kidding?" She looked shyly away, her gaze brushing Rand's from across the room where he made small talk with a hooker. The momentary connection steeled her resolve and escalated her running pulse to a gallop. Her cheeks burned as she noticed Maurice's quick, calculating assessment of her bosom. Rachel pressed an unsteady hand to her cleavage, hoping the material would absorb the trickling beads of sweat.
"Kidding?" he repeated, laughing softly. "My dear, I have never been more serious. You are, in fact, exquisite. I'm a worldly man, in experience not to mention travel. But my acquaintance with women of your ilk—intelligent, divinely gorgeous, and most pleasant to converse with—is, shall we say, unfortunately limited. Surely you've had many men, besides myself, appreciate those attributes."
"Oh, no! You see, I was an only child and my parents were very protective and—and I'm not exactly what you'd call, um... um, overly experienced when it comes to worldly men."
At least if she didn't count Rand whose compliments were often left-handed and unembroidered and that she'd take any day over this stuff that was so thick she wanted to gag. As for the protective parent, that much was true. Dear Daddy had run off many a boyfriend with his Gestapo inquisitions and bone-crushing handshakes. If he could see her now, he'd do a double roll in his grave and pound his coffin to get out.
"You, inexperienced, when everything about you is the epitome of sophistication? You must be younger than you look. How old did you tell me you were?"
"I didn't." Her nervous laugh was genuine. "But I turned twenty-three last month. I hope you don't think I'm just a baby and too young for your more seasoned tastes."
"Rubbish. Why don't I buy us a drink and we'll toast to your birthday?"
"That would be really nice. After all, I did spend it alone and I would so like to share it with someone special." She paused for effect. "Someone like you."
"But what about those protective parents of yours? Surely they sent their love and presents, even if they were too far away to join you."
"Farther than that, Maurice. Mother and Daddy died in a car accident two years ago."
"How tragic. Surely you must have other relatives that miss you. Aunts or uncles or grandparents?"
"Unfortunately, no. My parents were only children and my grandparents passed on when I was quite small."
"Oh, my dear, this is tragic." The glint in his eyes reminded her of matching fruit rolling up on a slot machine and spitting out a stream of silver that he greedily fingered. "Please accept my condolences and my belated wishes for a happy birthday." He raised a single finger to the bartender that had thus far stayed too busy to acknowledge them. "It seems the bartender is finally coming our way. What shall I order for you?"
Your slimy guts skewered on a toothpick umbrella and drowning in a Mai Tai for me to throw in your face, scumbag.
"A glass of White Zin would be wonderful."
"But not half as wonderful as you," he deftly insisted.
Rachel tugged down the hem that had ridden up her thighs an uncomfortable few inches. Maurice's appreciative notation of the small act suggested that he more than liked her sense of modesty. He was lapping it up. The creep. Chances were he was sizing up the status of her virginity and the bonus money it would bring if her damn hymen was intact.
Refusing to consider the inevitable investigation of her body, Rachel managed to quell the queasy swish of her stomach and leaned back so that Jack was a few inches closer for the little while longer she had him to count on.
Maurice placed their order then kept the conversation running with an anecdote she laughed at in all the right places. Stolen glances alerted her to the bartender's deceit. While he'd fixed her companion's Stolencha straight-up in clear sight, he poured the wine, and took a half-minute too long to do it, beneath the counter's ledge.
Drugged. The wine glass he sat before her with a flourish and a smile was drugged. Rachel deflected her immediate impulse to recoil from Maurice and dump the drink in his lap. She could feel Rand's gaze on her back and with it came the familiar prickling of fine hairs on her nape. He was anxious, worried, and sending her a silent message that it wasn't too late to get out.
She reached for the wine, meaning to slide it a few crucial inches closer to Jack's identical goblet.
Maurice caught her trembling fingertips with his own that were smooth, dry, and insistent. He lifted her glass and inhaled the bouquet before gallantly handing the vintage over.
"A sip and a toast. To you, my sweet, and especially to our most fortuitous meeting."
A quick glance to the left and she saw their bartender disappear through a swish of nearby ruby velvet doors. Her educated guess was that he had a fast call to make and a driver would be meeting them at the entrance.
Rachel pretended to take a small drink then sat it next to Jack, just as they'd planned. What they hadn't planned on was Maurice's quick retrieval and his admonishing shake of the head while he urged the rim to her lips.
"Come now, you don't really consider that to do justice to your birthday or our delightful acquaintance, do you? Let's try this again. To you. To me. To a night we'll never forget."
Had Jack switched the glasses? Not unless he was faster than David Copperfield and Houdini rolled into one.
"Here, here!" Rachel faked another sip. Before she could land the glass on the bar and stall for a few precious seconds, Maurice caught her wrist and tilted, tilted....
Deciding if she didn't drink up she'd risk blowing their cover, Rachel took several quick swallows. It had a slight bitter flavor, but otherwise there was no telltale taste.
From what she knew about the drug of choice she could expect it to hit within ten minutes. Let it hit, she decided. Maybe she was better off drugged than enduring more of this hell that she knew was nothing compared to the hell awaiting her. At least this way she wouldn't have to fake the effects.
The effects kicked in before she could polish off half the glass. Something tickled the back of her throat and emerged as a silly giggle. Maurice was stroking her calf with his unshiny shoe tip that had begun to gleam like Tinkerbell's wand in the shimmering darkness. And how agreeable she felt when he whispered they should blow this pop stand and hit the town in style.
Sounded good to her. But it shouldn't. Rachel frowned, then laughed as she scrambled for a wisp of comprehension. The
room grew languorously hazy and so did her brain. She reached for her purse and knocked it to the floor.
"I'll get it, my dear," Maurice graciously offered, swiping it up and leading her out on his arm.
If she was going to be drugged, Rachel decided this one wasn't half bad. She laughed gaily, feeling wildly uninhibited and loose. Everything struck her as funny:
The way Jack was getting up and taking her glass along with him. And Maurice patting her purse that he wouldn't find a gun in. Of course in her current state of hilarious insanity she'd think it real funny to blow his friggin' head off. She would have liked to say as much but her tongue felt plumper than an overstuffed quilt.
As they made their exit from the bar she was aware of an electric sensation stitching up her spine. Someone had touched her at the small of her back.
Even flying high she didn't need to look to see who it was. Only one person had ever affected her like that. Rachel tilted her spinning head and caught a parting glance from Rand before he was swallowed by the crowd zooming in, out then whirling round and round in telescopic technicolor.
Unlike her, Rand hadn't been smiling. So what, she thought as another lilting giggle erupted. Those stern lips of his were made for kissing like crazy and, crazy as she was for him, she'd gladly return his dumb dough in exchange for a taste of that gorgeous, sexy mouth.
She hoped he hurried up and met her in... well, wherever the heck that was that he was going to buy her. Too bad it was going to cost him when she'd gladly be his for free.
Chapter 9
The long white robes fluttered against Rand's sandal-clad feet. He quickened his paces, sidestepping a peddler hawking gaudy jewelry from a brightly colored cart. A drunk, thrown from a tavern's swinging doors, landed in his path.
Stepping over him without a cursory glance, Rand's mind remained locked on Rachel. A queasy feeling twisted his insides with each thought of what they might have done to her.
His utter impotence to help her when she'd needed him the most was a bitter reminder of past failure. Shutting it out, he concentrated on the surroundings.
Zebedique. Just as he remembered it. Beggars and whores and stinking rich sultans milled through the narrow cobblestone streets that were lined with casinos and massage parlors, opium dens and exquisite jewelry stores.
It was a twenty-four hour party as rich as it was sleazy. The thick smell of spice permeated everything. He caught himself sniffing his pores as he rounded a familiar corner.
He headed straight for a voluptuous building composed of stained glass windows and swirling gold turrets that looked like butterscotch dipped Dairy Queen cones. Rand adjusted the long scarf-type hood covering his head.
"You are invited?" the guard said in broken English.
Luckily, English was used as the link of communication amongst the global gathering represented in Zebedique. Rand had no reason to hire an interpreter, as many here did, or to pretend he was anything but what he was: A visiting American with enough money and contacts to grant him entry to this high roller den of iniquity. Even so, he'd studied up on the local dialect and could get by. Better yet, he could eavesdrop.
"I am invited. Do you wish to see my papers?" Upon a curt nod from the guard, Rand produced a letter of introduction and proof of an unlimited line of credit at a Swiss bank.
The guard waved him inside. As he took his indicated seat, Rand declined a drink and the sexual favors a servant girl offered. He scanned the crowd, aware that anticipation seemed to pulse through the air. Low murmurs filtered through the musical strains of a flute. Fat men, handsome men, old goats and fast livers lounged and drank and greedily fondled the girls that were in ample supply.
A loud clap sounded. The flute was joined by a sitar and a line of exotic heavily made-up women took their places then began to dance, to strip and undulate sinuously on the stage.
So this was how the slavers worked their customers up, he thought almost dazedly. He wished he could say he was immune. But as he watched the bronzed bodies glistening with oil, he could only envision Rachel, her fair skin, flowing red hair, and lips lush with invitation beckoning him to take her home.
Rand groaned, feeling the rush of his blood, the rise of his sex. His groan was echoed by many and he wished to heaven they'd just get on with it.
He got his wish. The women finished their dance and left. A dark, sinewy gnome of a man took center stage. The room, charged with lust, went silent.
"Bring the girl out." He clapped his hands twice and two men struggled with a dark, slender woman who was twisting and screaming and trying to break free of their hold in spite of the rope binding her wrists.
Rand was appalled. The rest of the crowd seemed excited, judging from the murmur of approval sweeping through the room.
"She's spirited," noted the auctioneer. "A fine Egyptian woman to warm a man's bed." He signaled and a large hook attached to a rope dropped from the top of the stage. With obvious practice the two assistants looped the binding between her wrists over the hook and left. With another signal the rope raised until she was balanced on her toes.
The woman was crying and Rand toyed with the notion of buying her just so he could set her free.
He couldn't. There were going to be a lot more women exactly like her and buying each one was out of the question.
"You like her breasts?" said the gnome. "Then see how you like the rest!" With a jerk of his hand he whipped the sheet from her body, exposing her in full frontal nudity.
The woman shrieked while the audience applauded.
"Unfortunately she is not a virgin." The gnome caught her around at the waist, the rope turning with his pivot. "But she's very tight and why should virginity matter with such beautiful buttocks and thighs you can train to wrap around your waist?"
The bidding lasted several minutes while the auctioneer upped each one, constantly extolling her merits.
She sold for the equivalent of fifty thousand dollars. The owner claimed her. Amidst polite applause he carried her off the stage.
Rand wished he'd taken the drink he'd been offered. He needed something to get a hold on himself before Rachel was similarly disgraced. Something to dampen this sick anticipation. He couldn't bear the thought of seeing her so horribly handled, of these other men looking upon her while they fondled themselves and placed their bids.
While he would outbid each one and doubtless be filling himself up with the sight of her nakedness.
The thought left him with a load of self-disgust. And the familiar arousal that thoughts of her always evoked. By the fifth girl the two warring qualities had twisted together with his gnawing anxiety: overt references to sex, nudity, and concern over Rachel bombarded his senses.
"And now gentlemen, the most intoxicating beauty we have ever offered. American. Educated. And best of all—" He clapped his hands and Rand watched, numb and yet, as he had feared he would be, hideously enthralled, as Rachel was led onto the stage. "She is a virgin!"
Flanked by the guards, she held her head high and silently walked with nothing but a sheet and her attitude to the center of the platform. Rand could see her scanning the crowd, eyes guarded but alert.
Sweet heaven, she was beautiful, standing proud and aloof from it all. He sensed the other patron's anticipation, the excitement sweeping them into a taut, hushed frenzy of lust.
Rand lusted too. Her eyes caught his and he knew she was pleading with him to end this quickly and take her away from this horrible place. He couldn't claim her soon enough, to whisk her away to the haven they'd share.
Something shifted in the middle of his chest, heaping sympathy and tenderness on the cauldron he was struggling to control.
But then the auctioneer was teasing them, sliding the sheet from her breasts. One plump alabaster breast spilled out, her nipple haloed by a large, dark areola.
Feeling himself grow so stiff that he hurt, Rand told himself he was no better than any other barbarian here. How could he, a civilized man, be nursing this aching
arousal when Sarah's similar plight had brought him here to right this terrible wrong? He didn't know. But his need for Rachel was immense, and he'd never imagined being faced with such raw carnality before assuming his position on the tightrope.
Rand drew in a shuddering, hot breath, tasting spice and the anticipation of woman on his tongue. He commanded himself to raise his gaze again to her face and support her with that until she was his, only his, by virtue of his filthy lucre.
Nonetheless, this atmosphere was bad for a man's morals. And it seduced his to sink lower with each second that passed.
* * *
Rachel locked her eyes on Rand. He was the only solid thing she had in the madness that had surrounded her since the minute she'd left the casino with the slaver. She held fast to his presence, to the reassurance she read in his gaze.
But there was more. Something dark and earthy that permeated the room and was focused on her. She shivered and vowed not to cry or scream.
Or dissolve into hysterical laughter. The whole thing was so absurd, so bizarre, she felt as if she were trapped into some B-grade movie and playing the starring role while another part of her observed, in disbelief, from a distance.
Distance. Maurice and company had kept it and good on the remainder of the flight. Had, in fact, seemed eager to hand her over to this end of the business that had mercifully proved to be all business. After a staff physician had concurred with the first doctor's findings, she was treated as if she were an investment to be handled with the greatest of care. She'd been bathed, massaged, manicured and pedicured, her hair washed and brushed so that it gleamed like the pennies she'd scrubbed with an eraser as a child until they'd glowed copper-red and new.
Her pubic hair had also been trimmed and fussed over in this assembly-line Club Med. An exclusive membership for sex slaves in the making. No clothes allowed. She'd counted twenty naked bodies besides hers, and the treatment of each one was so luxuriantly cavalier that she'd begun to feel oddly liberated by her own nudity. Her ingrained modesty, at home in the Western world, seemed a quaint, outdated custom in this anachronistic, backward society.
