Golden Paradise

by Susan Johnson

  No! she silently disavowed, feeling the first tremulous flut­ters begin, Stefan's eyes too observant, too knowing. She shouldn't, she mustn't climax, she must resist behaving like a lascivious trollop under that amused insolent stare.

  "No-o-o-o," she whimpered against the injustice of her emotions and her peaking ecstasy.

  Lisaveta's gratification triggered Stefan's own release. Their passion matched as it had so often in the past, and he fought against responding so exactly to her unbridled sensuality. She was flamboyantly sexual, resplendent in her voluptuousness, and every man reacted to her as he did.

  He tried then to restrain himself, to set himself apart from her legions of lovers. He intended to use her for his own pur­poses, pragmatic purposes; he wouldn't be tempered by her re­sponse, and he controlled his prodigal impulses for a moment more. But Lisaveta reached up then to kiss his mouth in un­thinking desire as she peaked, her lips soft and sweet tasting as he remembered, and he groaned into their lush resiliency, felt his shuddering climax begin and knew he couldn't stop him­self.

  "No…" he softly disclaimed as his white-hot lust poured into her.

  "No," they whispered in unison as their bodies met in per­fect harmony and the universe stood for a suspended moment in starlit brilliance around them.

  Short minutes later, tugging the lace ruffles up over her breasts, he patted them lightly in place, shook out the lace flounce on her shoulders and then slid her petticoat and the burgundy silk of her skirt down over her legs. Without expres­sion, he buttoned his trousers and tucked in his shirt while Lisaveta stood in shock and anger, furious at him… and at herself for responding so intensely. Still without speaking, he straightened the cuffs of his shirt, adjusting them to his jacket sleeves as though it mattered with no one in sight, and then with a quiet, "Thank you, Countess," he walked away.

  She watched him stroll down to the shoreline and then dis­appear into the birches bordering the lawn, wanting to strike out at him in outrage, wanting to follow him with a screaming tirade of wrathful indignation, wanting also, unfortunately— disobedient thought—to cling to his arm and say, "Take me with you."

  Her feelings were in untidy anarchy, a complicated muddle of wishful fantasy, lovesick yearning and indiscriminate rage. He was too beautiful and self-assured, too sought after and re­sistant to love. And it was bitter fate that she should want him anyway.

  Still warm, with cheeks flushed and pulse pounding, Lisa­veta welcomed the sea breeze. Shutting her eyes briefly, she leaned back against the cool granite, letting the sensations of sated passion subside. She shouldn't have been so physically receptive, she thought uneasily; she should have been less sus­ceptible, shown more control and resisted him. Why couldn't she coolly deal with Stefan, save herself the humiliation of matching his need with her own, instead of crying out in de­light, clinging to him, wanting him desperately? His motives, though, were never in question, even if hers were disordered and bewildering; his were purely carnal. And while he denied being drunk tonight, she wondered if perhaps he was. How else did one explain his shocking behavior?

  But perhaps Stefan lived constantly on the brink of scandal; maybe if she were to ask, Nikki and Alisa would confirm that seizing women in ballrooms and making love to them where all the world might observe was ordinary procedure for Prince Bariatinsky. He did, after all, number Catherine the Great and Prince Orlov among his ancestors, and both had been monu­mental egos in an era that subscribed to monumentality as a credo. And from all Militza had told her of Stefan's father and mother, they had shown every sign of regarding impulse as a virtue.

  And while she might decry the vice of capricious impulse, she in fact had reacted just as spontaneously. Her initial refusal had stemmed from anger. She had wanted him, too, and he must have been aware of her body's response even as she protested.

  It was impossible any longer to deny her need of him. She'd proved it, demonstrably, tempestuously, and she might as well confront the truth.

  She belonged to the legion of women—ex-lovers, current lovers and future lovers—who found Stefan irresistible.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Walking through the informal English gardens facing the sea, Stefan found his coachman visiting with the other drivers near the stables and had himself driven to the Yacht Club. Settling into a club chair near the windows, he had a servant bring him a bottle of brandy, watched as the man filled a glass to the point indicated by his finger and then, thanking him with a smile, began drinking. There was no possibility he could sleep to­night, and the liquor might help to mitigate the distasteful sense of affront and self-reproach assailing him.

  He shouldn't, of course, have forced himself on Lisaveta.

  Yet she had responded like a practiced tart, damn her. How many other men had enjoyed her favors the past few weeks…? The thought of other men touching her maddened and in­flamed him, made him resentful, made him covetous.

  He hadn't known exactly how he'd proceed once he saw Lisaveta again. He had intended to make love to her and by so doing exorcise his burning need for her, feel nothing but relief and return to Kars, although beneath his pragmatic resolve had been the more realistic possibility that he would, if necessary, bring her back with him.

  Since he wanted her still, there was no question now of what to do, only of methodology.

  He would simply have to carry her off, he decided, draining his glass and staring into the clear crystalline bottom. As he had before. And once she was settled in the mountain lodge, she'd be happy and content… as she had before. He would see to it.

  Other men had wives and established mistresses; the prac­tice, in fact, was prevalent. And while the inclination to install a confirmed mistress had never tempted him before, there was no reason why he shouldn't.

  At this time of night the club chairs were deserted. The gaming tables two rooms away were the site of all activity, the brilliant lights and noisy play removed from the quiet of the parlor fronting the sea. He poured himself another drink and looked out the windows for the first time since he'd come into the room. The slips and docks and pier stretched across the flat horizon. Masts of sailing craft and smokestacks of larger yachts were silhouetted against the moonlight. The breeze had dropped off so the banners on the outside deck only flapped occasionally on their standards; the stars were radiant in the sky.

  As he gazed at the tranquil scene and vast sparkling sky, his mood seemed to alter. He was less restless now, perhaps the li­quor was taking effect, and the chaos of his feelings was sorted out… a decision made. The Golden Countess was about to be taken off the market—whether she liked it or not.

  He hadn't been at the Yacht Club long because the brandy bottle was only half-empty when Nikki walked into the lamp-lit room. He stood for a moment just inside the doorway, sur­veying the large area punctuated with leather chairs and sofas, writing tables, newspaper and magazine racks and silk-shaded chandeliers. His tawny eyes narrowed momentarily when he caught sight of Stefan lounging in his chair near the window, and with purposeful stride he walked over to him.

  "I've been looking for you," he said, not bothering with social amenities. He'd been to Stefan's palace on the Fontanka first, and then to several cafes Stefan favored, before thinking of the Yacht Club, and he was irritated and badly out of tem­per.

  "So you found me," Stefan idly replied, not inclined to be chastised by anyone. He knew why Nikki was here, and glow­ering like some wrathful deity, but the woman was available to the entire city. Surely he needn't bear the brunt of Nikki's cen­sure.

  "What did you do to Lisaveta?" Each word was a ground-out challenge.

  While cognizant of Nikki's temper, Stefan matched him in his own terse resentment. "Only what, from the sound of it, every other man in Saint Petersburg's doing," he drawled ca­sually, his sardonic expression masking his indignation at her popularity.

  "If we hadn't been friends so long, I'd kill you for that re­mark." Nikki's golden eyes were hostile. "I'll say inst
ead, you're dead wrong."

  "Not from what I hear." Stefan hadn't moved from his comfortable pose, the glass of brandy in his hand resting on the chair arm, his eyes only half-open, as if their conversation were of negligible interest to him.

  "Your informants are mistaken," Nikki retorted, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper, his stance vengeful, his Saint George medal and ribbon the only splash of color in the sever­ity of the evening dress. "You could have hurt her."

  One dark brow lifted in the studied calm of Stefan's expres­sion. "She didn't appear to be in pain. To the contrary—"

  "She's pregnant."

  It looked for a moment as though Stefan had stopped breathing, but he quickly recovered and carelessly said, "So?"

  Nikki's golden eyes flared like brilliant flame, his features took on the menace many men had seen across the dueling field. "So," Nikki murmured softly, "I understand you're the father, she's my cousin, and I'd like to know what you're going to do about it."

  "Can you prove it?"

  "I can kill you," Nikki breathed, his voice between a growl and a whisper, "and then it won't matter."

  "Perhaps not a satisfactory solution for the lady, though," Stefan replied in an equally soft tone. "Do I understand she wishes to marry me?" His inquiry was insolent.

  "She claims not to. She also claims she's not pregnant."

  Stefan's brows rose. "And yet you're hounding me."

  "She's apparently an innocent, although—" and it was Nikki's turn to raise one dark brow "—I'm sure you're more aware of that than we."

  Stefan had the grace to acknowledge his responsibility there but took issue with the timing. "If she's not sure," he went on, no longer lounging, his glass put aside, his dark eyes intent on Nikki, "why couldn't it be someone else's. She's been here nearly a month."

  "The girl is chaste as country air."

  "Remember to whom you speak." Stefan's drawl was re­monstrance.

  "Present company excepted," Nikki said, his well-considered gaze taking in the altered posture and attitude of his friend.

  "Then why is it," Stefan said, his voice intense with jeal­ousy, "I've heard such contrary rumor?"

  Nikki smiled for the first time. "Rumor only. She's flirta­tious. Everyone wants her. It doesn't necessarily follow they were successful. And they weren't. Don't tell me," he went on, his mouth quirked in irony, "you deserted your cavalry corps for Lise and her gallants."

  "The munitions and artillery are bogged down," Stefan muttered. "We're weeks off schedule. How do I know," he demanded, his tone different now, his dark glance keen, "it's untrue about the other men?" He wanted verification. He wanted assurances. He wanted absolutes, this man who'd lived his own life so differently.

  "Because she came home with us every night in our coach and Alisa tucked her in and said good-night. Is my word suf­ficient against your jealousy?"

  "Every night?" Stefan wouldn't so easily relinquish the maddening gossip concerning the Golden Countess.

  Nikki gazed at Stefan from under his dark brows, the gold­en Kuzan eyes almost translucent in the lamp glow, his voice when he spoke significant in its utter lack of emphasis. "Every night," he said.

  "She's exactly the same," Stefan said very quietly, trying to sort out the confusion and disarray of his thoughts. "I don't know if I believe you." How could she respond as she had with him and not fuel the rumors and gossip for the exact same rea­son?

  Nikki shrugged. "That's your problem, Stefan. I can't obliterate your jealousy." Stefan's gaze widened.

  "You might as well face it," Nikki said with a grin. "That's a hell of a long trip you just made."

  "Don't remind me," Stefan grumbled.

  Pulling over a chair facing Stefan, Nikki sank into it and smiled benignly. "She'll be flattered to know you relinquished duty for her."

  "You misunderstand," Stefan protested.

  "How long have we known each other, Stefan? Since we were fifteen? Tell me honestly that you're here for other reasons." He waited, feeling vastly better than he had when he'd first confronted Stefan.

  "I could be here to visit my fiancée."

  "Appalling thought," Nikki replied, his smile sunny. "Were you sober when you proposed to Nadejda?" he asked with masculine bias.

  "No."

  "I didn't think so."

  "It wouldn't have changed things, had I been."

  "Because the House of Bariatinsky-Orbeliani needed an heir."

  Stefan sighed. "Yes, because of that."

  "But, good God, Nadejda." Nikki's own sigh was weighty with rebuke.

  "It didn't matter who it was." Stefan swirled the liquor in his glass and then gazed across at Nikki from under his heavy brows. "I was tired of looking," he slowly said. "Masha had been nagging me for nearly two years," he added with a neg­ligent shrug. "And I only had a week in town."

  "Also, Vladimir has court influence sewed up."

  "Which overshadowed points one through three," Stefan sarcastically murmured.

  Nikki wasn't unrealistic. Vladimir was powerful. "So Vlad­imir was the deciding factor."

  "With my family background," Stefan concluded, images of their years of wandering in Europe and his father's painful de­cline vividly recalled. "Or was," he added, all his carefully considered plans for a conventional engagement, marriage and family in jeopardy. Nikki would be adamant about marriage, he knew, if Lise was pregnant, and even he was beginning to question the merits of an arrangement he'd deemed extraordi­narily suitable only months ago. All because of a beautiful Countess he'd just been brutish to because he was jealous of every man who looked her way. "Merde and bloody hell," he swore, realizing he was indeed jealous, "now what?"

  "Exactly why I'm here," Nikki cheerfully replied to the gloomy man sunk into the brown leather chair. "First ask her to marry you."

  He was offered a slow and searching look. "And what of Nadejda?"

  "Engagements are made to be broken." A bland smile ac­companied the platitude.

  "At the risk of upsetting your plans," Stefan neutrally said, "I should point out the contracts are rather lengthy and signed."

  "You can afford to buy her off. You own half of Georgia. And remember to be persuasive when you propose. Lise is curiously independent."

  "I'm supposed to beg her to marry me?" For someone who'd only considered marriage a final necessity, the prospect was dumbfounding. "Maybe we should rethink this. She's probably not pregnant. She probably doesn't want to marry me if she is."

  This reasoning received a scowl from Nikki, who viewed family honor as quite apart from other of his casually held be­liefs regarding male-female relationships.

  "She will?" Stefan said, responding to Nikki's scowl. "You don't know if she will," he went on, answering his own ques­tion.

  "If she's pregnant," Nikki very quietly said, "you're mar­rying her."

  "And if I don't?" Stefan as softly inquired, thin-skinned and touchy when given ultimatums.

  Nikki lifted his hands in a gesture of goodwill. "Let's not ruin a pleasant friendship. You care about her or you wouldn't be here causing a scandal at the Gagarins'."

  "I cm," Stefan wryly admitted, "a hell of a long way from Kars."

  "Exactly," Nikki said.

  "All right. I'll talk to her."

  "Do you want to come back with me?"

  "Now?" It was evasion pure and simple. Stefan had been a bachelor too long.

  "Tomorrow morning," Nikki pointedly said, and rose to leave.

  "Tomorrow morning," Stefan agreed, and reached for the brandy bottle.

  Why was it, he reflected, the subdued heat of the brandy sliding down his throat, more daunting to contemplate mar­riage to Lise than to Nadejda? He answered his question with­out a flicker of delay. Because he cared about Lise, cared enormously if he faced the hard facts of his motivating influ­ences in coming north. Unlike Nadejda, if they were to marry, he couldn't ignore her. He couldn't continue in his current style of independent living as he'd planned
to do with Nadejda. Until this moment, he thought with a startled sense of discovery, he'd never realized need for a woman could be so confining.

  On that morbid note, he refilled his glass, only to reflect on further restrictions should he marry Countess Lazaroff. She could be a demanding woman and insistent; she also had an imperious streak, due no doubt to her Kuzan blood, and she argued with him often and vehemently if she disagreed. He wasn't in the mood that evening to contemplate the more pos­itive side of their relationship. He saw only in this marriage, so different from the kind he'd contemplated with Nadejda, the absolute end to his freedom. The thought prompted him to swallow the contents of his glass, necessitating another refill, a sequence that continued into the wee hours.

  Stefan wasn't in the best humor the next morning, touched as he was with a slight headache, nor was the recipient of his call in any better spirits. Lisaveta had spent a sleepless night debating the appalling negatives in her attraction to Stefan. Both were uneasy, also, considering the circumstances of their last meeting.

  Why had he come? she wondered when the footman came to fetch her from the library. Surely there was nothing to say af­ter last night. Had she not thought she would appear cowardly to refuse his card, she would have.

  He automatically rose to his feet when she entered the draw­ing room, but slowly, to favor his throbbing temples, and im­mediately apologized. "Forgive my actions last night at Gagarin's," he quietly said. "I was entirely at fault."

  Since Lisaveta's sleepless night had to do with the humilia­tion of her unrestrained surrender to the irresistible Prince, she wasn't in an absolving mood. "Yes," she said with censure and disapprobation, "you certainly were…but then, you and shameless excess are synonymous."

  Stefan opened his mouth to speak, about to remind her of the nail marks she'd left on the back of his neck, but decided against it and said instead, "I'm extremely sorry."

  Lisaveta scrutinized him sharply, since his tone was much too contrite for the Prince Bariatinsky she knew. But perhaps he had manners after all, or perhaps a conscience. Regardless, this visit was over. "If you came to apologize, consider it done. Good day, Prince Bariatinsky."