Kuzan 02 - Lovestorm

by Susan Johnson

A provocative light gleamed in Alex's pale eyes. He shot his father a roguish glance. "I have your blessing, then?" he queried cheerfully.

  By all means, enjoy yourself," Nikki was so far mollified as to inquire indulgently, "Do you need any money?"

  "No, thank you, sir. I have plenty."

  "I'm sure you're the first Kuzan to admit to such prudence. Alisa, my dear," said Nikki with a twinkle in his eye, "can we take credit for raising such a paragon of monetary circumspection?" He turned fond parental eyes on Alex and interrogated sportively, "Is there one vice, after all, that has eluded you?"

  "At the risk of incurring your censure once again, Papa," Sasha grinned, "it's not a matter of abstaining from extravagance so much as it is the rather heavy winning at the gaming tables that supports my spendthrift tendencies."

  "Can't fault your skill with cards," Nikki generously conceded, his humor once more charitably disposed toward his firstborn. Finishing his glass of brandy Nikki announced convivially, "I'm off. Promised Cernov a few hours of baccarat today. I'll be home in time to dine with you and the children, dear." He always disliked the punitive role as parent and was pleased the controversy had been resolved in a way exactly suited to the interests of them both. He left.

  Patting the brocade cushion next to her, Alisa gently said, "Sit with me a moment, dear, and finish your drink."

  As Alex sprawled next to his mother and leaned his head back she remarked quietly, "Tell me now, just who is this young woman?"

  Alex sighed resignedly. "Maman, don't worry. It's nothing, just another woman."

  "Are you sure, dear? I don't want to pry, but she's been at the dacha a long time."

  "Rest easy, Maman, I can handle my own affairs."

  "Your father was very worried. You're sure you're not serious about this female?"

  Alex's eyebrows quirked sardonically. "Serious?" he said, then stood up and placed his empty glass on the table. "I'm not serious about anything," he laughed, "I'm only twenty-four. Au revoir, Maman." He bent to kiss her goodbye.

  After the interview that had concluded so reassuringly for all parties, Alex strolled down the avenue to Alexandre's with a light step and an exuberant spirit. He was in the grandest mood; the ordeal with his parents had been pleasantly consummated with his father's benediction on his amusements. Evidently no vengeful relatives had surfaced to accuse him of trifling with Zena. His mother had been soothed, and the most delectable bedwarmer awaited him at home.

  Entering the ornate plate-glass doors to buy Zena the promised bauble, Alex was disposed to purchase every imaginable luxury for his pert and saucy plaything. As long as she was amusing him so masterfully, it would be miserly of him to not return the favor. At Alexandre's no price tags could be seen, but one could feast one's eyes on displays of malachite, jade, ivory, tooled leather, umbrellas, walking sticks, purses, scarves, silver, jewelry, and china. Young Prince Alex walked the aisles swiftly, pointing and nodding affirmatively. When he left the exclusive establishment twenty minutes later, a laden shop clerk followed him to his sleigh carrying numerous boxes. From Alexandre's he walked to Druce's, the famous magasin anglais where they sold Harris tweeds, English soap, gloves, and hose. More packages were added to those in the troika. Beyond was Cabassue's, small and select, where Alex purchased two dozen pairs of French gloves for Zena. Fragrance poured from the doors of Brocard 's, and now the mademoiselle had enough French scent to last a lifetime. And last he entered the jeweled splendor of Fabergé. When he left a short time later, the prince carried several white holly wood boxes lined in white velvet, the hallmark of a Fabergé purchase.

  Carelessly tossing the boxes into the sleigh, Alex jumped in, dropped into the soft upholstered velvet, and said in the most jovial good humor, "Don't spare the horses, Ivan, I long for the comforts of the dacha."

  Alex dozed on the way back as the early winter twilight fell across the peaceful woodlands of dark pines and starkly white birch. The windows glowed warmly golden as two hours later the sweat-streaked horses pulled up to the dacha entrance. Alex directed the servants to carry the packages into the study.

  As Alex walked into the foyer, a small body hurtled toward him and wrapped chubby arms around his legs.

  "Papa! Papa! Where been? Where been?" Bobby screamed. Sweeping the excited child up into his arms, Alex grinned cheerfully and said, "I went to buy you some toys."

  "Toys? See! See! Bobby see!" the young boy squealed. Zena stood back in the shadows of the stairway, irrepressi-bly happy to have Alex back. The day had been endless without him. Against her will, against all her plans, rhis careless rake had won her heart. She missed him terribly. He had only to enter a room and her spirits soared dizzily.

  Scanning the entrance hall with a searching glance, Alex spied Zena and, moving toward the study, encompassed her within the circle of his free arm and bent to bid her hello with a kiss.

  Her world was complete once again. Alex was back.

  "Come see Bobby's toys and the trinkets I brought you. Missed you, ma petite" he said as he squeezed her gently.

  The packages were spilled on the leather couch and on the carpet near the fireplace. Alex deposited Bobby on the rug and laid a package at his feet. Little hands ripped and tore the paper while Alex helped with the ribbon. A miniature golden train emerged from the silver tissue, and Zena's eyes opened in disbelief.

  "Sasha!" she expostulated in wonder. "It's gold! My Lord, it's gold!"

  "Don't worry, love, it still works," he indulgently affirmed, a small smile playing across his face. "See, here's the track; you wind the train with this key. Can you turn this key, Bobby?" he kindly asked. "Look, I'll show you how."

  The track was quickly assembled, and soon the little solid gold train was gliding around the track, glistening in the flickering firelight. Some of Bobby's other toys were soon strewn in disarray on the floor while the young boy concentrated on the silver reproduction of a Volga paddle steamer by Henrik Wigstrom and a circus set with animals, acrobats, and clowns sculpted in enamel, gold, and semi-precious stones. A large pan of water had been carried in so that the paddle steamer could function, and the toddler was now very seriously teaching the circus performers and animals to swim. He subscribed to the "sink or swim" method of instruction.

  Zena was awestruck by the extravagance.

  "Here are a few things for you, too, child. I hope you like them," said Alex as he tossed several small wooden boxes in Zena's lap. With undiluted pleasure he watched her eyes sparkle in astonishment at the magnificent array of jewelry that spilled out of the velvet-lined boxes: a three-strand necklace of enormous pearls; a diamond brooch in the form of a Catherine's wheel; emerald earclips with glittering diamond teardrops; a ruby pendant worth an emir's ransom; and the pièce de résistance, an Art Nouveau necklace composed of sinewy golden links embellished with sapphires and emeralds that supported an elegant dragonfly fashioned from an enormous baroque pearl, its wings crafted from translucent mother-of-pearl and sapphires, the eyes gleaming emeralds, the whole poised between infinitely delicate water droplets fashioned from hundreds of diamonds.

  "Do you like them?" Alex asked tranquilly.

  "Do I like them!" Zena breathed in a whisper, tears streaming down her face as she sat near the fire, her lap filled with sparkling jewels. "Of course, I love them!" she said. "But Sasha, I couldn't accept them. They're much too expensive," she softly cried.

  "Nonsense!" Alex uttered flatly. "Absolute nonsense. I'm tolerably rich (which avowal took honors as the understatement of the century). I assure you, my man of business won't raise an eyebrow at the bill. Now, enough said. You'll keep them or I'll hold my breath until I turn blue," he teased, and a smile lit his dark, handsome face.

  Zena couldn't help but laugh at his ridiculous threat, which was exactly what he wanted her to do. Tears always made him uncomfortable.

  "If you want to please the hell out of me," he said as he leaned over to gently brush away the tears under her eyes, "you might consider wearing the
dragonfly necklace when you dress for dinner tomorrow. Tonight we're going to pique-nique here in front of the fire and listen to the unrestrained squeals of that brat of a brother you have, who seems to be gleefully set on drowning each of his toys." His smile belied the gruff words, and the evening progressed precisely as he wished. No more talk of "can" or "can't accept your gifts," no more tears, and much later, no more chatter as a sleepy Bobby was bundled off to bed by Mariana. The evening ended on the pleasantly sensual note envisioned by the young prince. The delicate, voluptuous beauty in his arms cried softly that night in sated release as she warmed him again and again.

  3

  At ten-thirty the following morning, just as Zena, Bobby, and Alex were finishing breakfast in the sunny east parlor, voices were heard in the entrance hall.

  Very soon Yuri appeared in the doorway, flushed and emanating healthy fresh air.

  One winged eyebrow rose slightly as Alex drawled with friendly sarcasm, "Don't waste any time, do you, Yuri?"

  Turning to Zena he smoothly commenced introductions. "Zena, I'd like you to meet one of my oldest friends, Yuri Petrovich Bolotnikov."

  "A most exquisite pleasure to make your acquaintance." Yuri smiled winningly into Zena's eyes as he bowed elegantly over her hand. Yuri was a tall, handsome, blue-eyed, blond of Slavic splendor. His warm manner was redolent with friendliness and boundless cheer. Zena couldn't help but respond to the warmth of his personality.

  "Good morning, Yuri Petrovitch," she said, bestowing a glowing, half-shy smile upon the towering blond man. "Alex talks about you with the highest regard."

  "What a perfectly lovely intime domestic," a sultry feminine voice cooed archly from the open doorway. Amalie stood dramatically poised, the epitome of elegance and womanly loveliness in a lavender velvet traveling gown bordered with ermine. There was no missing the dazzling effect of the countess's entrance: the lavender gown set off her magnificent body to perfection as well as reflecting the

  sparkle in her luminous, lavender eyes; her ivory skin was flushed delicately from the cold; the glorious face and golden hair were framed becomingly by her fur hood.

  The vision immediately induced an apprehensive twinge of discomfort in Zena, while Alex repressed the start her appearance caused him and damned Yuri inwardly for his crudeness. Alex quickly recovered himself; he was seldom disconcerted and never for long. Amalie glided toward Alex with feline grace. Fobbing off her attempt to embrace him by taking both kid-gloved hands in his, he gazed at her with a cool arrogance.

  "What are you doing here, Amalie?" the prince said with a conspicuous lack of gallantry.

  The countess opened her exquisite lavender eyes very wide. "Why, I've missed you, darling," she murmured soulfully.

  Alex was unmoved. "Come off it, Amalie," he calmly replied, and then proceeded to make the necessary introductions with a careless politeness.

  As the women were greeting each other, Amalie sweetly malicious and Zena uncertain and uncomfortable, Alex cast a scowling, questioning glance over their heads to Yuri, who shrugged his shoulders apologetically in response.

  "Brandy, Yuri?" Alex inquired and jerked his head in the direction of the window where a cellarette of decanters stood on a small table. Crossing to the mahogany table, scarcely out of hearing distance from the women, Alex snarled, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

  As Alex poured two generous measures, Yuri quickly explained sotto voce, "Lord, don't think I planned this. Last night at the Demidoffs' I inadvertently mentioned I was dropping by here this morning, and Amalie insisted on coming along. You know how demanding Amalie can be."

  "Don't I know," Alex replied with disgust and lifted his eyes heavenward.

  "Sorry," Yuri apologized.

  Alex exhaled slowly, releasing his frustration, then drained his glass of brandy. "It's not your fault," Alex said gently. "Forget it." Amalie's brittle, spiteful laugh resounded from across the room. Alex sighed resignedly, "We'd better go and save Zena from Amalie's gilded claws. The young chit's no match for the bitch. She'll be verbally savaged within minutes. Come, Yuri, a little help to hold the tigress Benckendorff from my lamb's jugular."

  The men sauntered back just as Amalie was tweaking a retreating, abashed Bobby under the chin and sweetly cooing, "And whose little boy are you?" Bobby stared at this strange, intense face that was much too close, pressed himself timidly into the back of his chair, and clung to the padded arms with an anxious intensity.

  "You're frightening the poor boy, Amalie. Desist," Alex said softly, bent down, and swept Bobby up into his arms.

  "Papa!" Bobby cried in relief and buried his head in Alex's shoulder.

  Yuri's eyebrows rose into his hairline while Amalie audibly gasped. Zena raised panic-stricken eyes to Alex. Alex grinned benignly at her, disclaiming mildly to Yuri and Amalie, "Merely an affectionate childish expression, I assure you."

  Amalie turned on Zena immediately, even spurious polite courtesy discarded. "The child is yours then, mademoiselle?'

  "No, madame," Zena stammered somewhat faintly. "Bobby is ... he's . . ."

  "He's her young brother, my dear, curious Amalie." Alex smoothly finished Zena's faltering sentence. Still holding Bobby snugly in his arm, Alex placed his free hand on Zena's shoulder, a gesture both protective and possessive. Looking coolly into Amalie's dubious eyes, Alex drawled gently, "Zena and Bobby are old friends of the family merely resting here briefly on their journey south. Now, Amalie, does that sufficiently satisfy your avid inquisitiveness?" Considering the explanation more than Amalie deserved, he turned abruptly. "How about a game of billiards, Yuri? We were finished with breakfast."

  Zena's head swiveled up toward Alex, her large blue eyes filled with stark appeal.

  Interpreting the plea accurately, Alex amended smoothly, "Ladies, do join us. Amalie, you've played often enough with us." The double entendre was not intended, and Alex was immediately sorry it had occurred, for Amalie preened glowingly.

  Yuri stepped in to bridge the faux pas diplomatically, explaining to Zena that Amalie was quite an expert billiards player. "Alex and I have a devil of a time winning," he attested.

  Bobby went off with Mariana while the two couples retired to the billiard room. As Alex broke to begin the game, Amalie seated herself next to Zena on the high-backed, cane-seated billiard chairs.

  "Now my dear," Amalie simpered with artificial amiability. "Tell me where you come from." Gossip had insinuated that Alex's houseguest this time was not the usual ballet dancer or young matron but a woman from the streets. One glance at Zena's delicate, refined features and one sentence uttered in her mellifluous, perfectly accented French disclaimed the gossip. The question was, Whose daughter was she? Obviously she was an innocent of the first rank, judging from the uncertainty and blushes.

  Zena blanched at the direct inquiry, unused to dissembling with ease. An inarticulate murmur and tightly clenched hands were Amalie's only response.

  Overhearing the bluntly worded question, Alex looked up from the three-cushion double rail shot he had just scored and decided this was no time for finesse. It would be wasted on the feline countess. Alex gave the countess a most quelling look, his drawl very pronounced. "You talk too much, Amalie. Enough of the prying questions, my dear. Is anyone asking you where your husband is or where he thinks you are? Now, we all could put inquiries to you which you wouldn't care to discuss, such as: What in the world did you tell Boris when he found you on the terrace late one night last fall with only a velvet cloak to cover your nakedness, hmm? Or perhaps you'd care to answer how you can stand to be married to the fat pig in the first place. You will, I'm sure, understand what I'm saying." Smiling faintly, Alex serenely accomplished a difficult two-corner billiard, oblivious to the cold-eyed countess who flashed him a seething glare of anger.

  The prince looked up. "Agreed, then Amalie?" he asked blandly, a marked degree of sarcasm evident in the drawling voice. "You don't ask any questions and we won't ask any questions." The words f
ell into a small pool of silence, and for a long moment there was a complete and unnerving hush. Yuri was staring into the distance, his eyes cool and remote.

  Alex stood there for a full thirty seconds, holding the countess's blazing eyes in a mild glance as he lazily chalked his cue, a glance nevertheless that held more than a hint of steel. Quickly Amalie realized it would serve no good purpose to further antagonize Alex. She'd find out about the little bit of fluff in other ways.

  Amalie's eyes flashed a warm compliance. An amused laugh broke from between flawless white teeth and full rose lips. "Touché, Sasha. No more questions."

  The prince sighed gently and set down the chalk. "Very astute, my dear," he murmured.

  At which point Amalie abandoned any further pretense of friendship with Zena and spent the next hour doing what she did best. She flirted and enticed with both face and figure. She brushed against Alex as she moved to her next shot. She touched him familiarly as she bantered and reminisced about old times and mutual acquaintances.

  Yuri, between turns, gallantly attempted to explain to Zena that this was Amalie's usual behavior and not singular to these circumstances. He could see Zena was uncomfortable, struggling bravely to ignore the honeyed coquetry enacted before her. Yuri's attempts to allay Zena's intense discomfort were deeply appreciated by the young woman.

  This was a rare charmer Alex had found, Yuri thought, uncommonly pretty with fine, dark blue eyes that had a disconcertingly direct gaze. It was a pleasant change from the usual limpid blue. Her eyes could twinkle, though in a most disturbing manner. This little mademoiselle was a singular combination of the most matter-of-fact common sense and the most winsome, delicious folly. It was readily apparent why Alex's interest had persisted beyond his usual fortnight, as it was equally apparent that the little mademoiselle adored her seducer. Like a moth to the flame, Yuri mused uneasily, and he couldn't help pitying her. He banished the thought as disloyal, for both he and Alex had always freely sought their pleasure without undo concern for the consequences. But this fragile beauty was too obviously vulnerable, and the thought of her hopeless future with Alex kept returning. Sasha was not the person to bring happiness and requited love to the young miss.