Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5

by L. E. Bryce, Emma Wildes, Kate Burns

  "Saret,” Jahzel asked gently, “what did you tell Khemwy when he asked why you thought you why you wanted to pose for him? What did you say to convince him to let you stay?"

  Saret told him, repeating what Khemwy had said months earlier. Only now, the sentiment lacking in the stone carver's account was present, and Jahzel could see why Khemwy had relented. “I just wanted to be part of something beautiful. It didn't matter if he paid me or not, as long as he let me pose for him. Didn't he tell you, sir?"

  "Yes, he did, but I wished to hear you say it.” Jahzel looked over at the filmy partition, where the two servants waited for his signal. “I should explain something to you, Saret, and then perhaps you will understand all this.

  "In my household, there is nothing or no one that is not beautiful. The gardens, the furniture, the servants, even the privy where I perform my bodily functions are all pleasing to the eye. I have six wives and five akeshi, all exquisite creatures, yet none has any thought but for what is in their wardrobes or jewel boxes. And then, when I saw Khemwy's work, it occurred to me what an amazing thing it would be if a young man or woman existed whose face and soul were equally beautiful. I thought it must be you."

  "But it isn't, sir,” Saret said shakily. “It isn't me at all. I'm ugly, and only the gods can change my face."

  "Or an artist's hand,” said Jahzel. “You truly are not as ugly as you believe."

  His lower lip trembling, a heartbeat away from bursting into tears, Saret looked away. “You're saying that to be kind."

  Jahzel nodded. “I also say it because it is the truth. I would not have you leave here empty handed, but I cannot give you anything more precious than what Khemwy has already given you."

  Theppu would have met this statement with a seductive pout and caresses until he elicited a jewel, fine silk robe, or costly scent from the High Prince. Saret, on the other hand, began to protest. “I don't need anything, sir. Khemwy gave me a little money for my work."

  His embarrassment was sincere enough that Jahzel made no attempt to ask what he would like, though it was not his intention to dismiss the boy without some token. “Then I will respect your wish, Saret. My guards will escort you home with my assurances to your family that we did nothing more than talk."

  Rising from the cushions, Jahzel extended a hand to his guest. Court etiquette did not require him to make this gesture, not for a mere subordinate. As Saret stood with lowered eyes, once again a commoner in the presence of his prince, Jahzel stepped forward and placed his hands on the youth's broad shoulders, steadying him before leaning in.

  Startled by the familiarity, Saret jerked back. “Sir, what are you doing?"

  No one has ever kissed him before. “It is not what you think,” Jahzel said gently, “only the kiss of peace between brothers."

  As he spoke, Jahzel bent and touched his lips to Saret's pockmarked cheeks. “May the gods favor and keep you, Saret."

  Saret wordlessly touched a hand to his cheek, his eyes wide and moist with emotion. Given another moment he might have spoken, but the spell was broken by the arrival of Saruken and his guards. Jahzel nodded that he should go with the men, one of whom immediately smothered his guffaw at a freezing glare from the High Prince.

  Alone once more, Jahzel stood at the window, looking down into the shadowed courtyard garden as the servants entered and began to clear away the remains of the supper behind him. Melancholy replaced his earlier calm, for he knew in his heart that he would not see Saret again.

  I should have kissed him again, he thought, and tasted his lips. I could have offered him an hour of tenderness along with my friendship, for no one else will ever be so moved by him.

  Sighing, Jazhel leaned his forehead against the windowsill. No, for then I would have wanted him beyond what I could have, and that cannot be. Curse you, old man, for stirring such longing in me.

  For he understood now that Khemwy had not lied, that a beautiful boy truly did dwell in Osharan. What the gods had taken away from Saret, they had restored in a purity of spirit worth the wooing, yet it was not to be.

  Jahzel's daydreams could supply passionate interludes that reality could never fulfill, and he knew how terrible a thing irony was when it wore flesh and tugged at the heart.

  One More Stroke

  Kate Burns

  Also by Kate Burns

  Halfpipe Romance

  Love Lessons

  Into the Heat

  Canyon's Call

  Chapter One

  "Are you sure you know what you're doing? I mean, it's a long stretch from here to there, don't you think?"

  The voice coming through the telephone line was wobbly but I knew it wasn't because of the long distance connection. Jenny was having separation anxiety, something that always showed itself in her voice. And if the truth be told, I was having a bit of it myself. Not that I'm going to admit it. Uh-uh. I haven't traveled halfway across the globe to admit I'm lonely for my twin sister.

  "Of course I know what I'm doing.” I dropped into one of the serviceable yet ugly chairs that filled the apartment and twisted the old-fashioned phone cord around my index finger. “I'm taking a break from real life. Living my dream, remember? I'm getting away from school and the job and—"

  "And Paul?"

  Sighing, I shrugged. The soft cotton of the much washed Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt caressed my shoulders. It was Paul's shirt, or at least it had been, until I'd confiscated it last year. I don't know why I had brought it along, except that its touch brought him close. As close as I wanted him to be, but not as close as he seemed to feel we should be. Paul. The word brought a chill in the warm room and my heart gave a wayward thud.

  "Yeah, him too,” I admitted. “He's part of the reason I came, I'll admit that. I'm hoping he takes this time to move forward, to find someone new. To forget about me."

  It's true. Almost. I'd love it if Paul and I could be friends eventually. So, truthfully I didn't want him to forget about me entirely. Maybe I just wanted—needed—him to forget about the crazy obsession he had, the one where wedding bells, a long white gown and a houseful of little Pauls took prominence. I liked him well enough. I mean, we'd been dating for two years, hadn't we? But love him? Enough to marry? Sorry, but that wasn't in my heart. Or our future. So really, this idea to pursue my dream, far, far away from the Pennsylvania countryside where we'd all grown up, was for the best. Hopefully, for all of us.

  "I don't know, sis...” Jenny sounded doubtful.

  "I do know. He's got to find someone new, someone who can love him the way he deserves to be loved.” I poked my fingertip through a frayed hole in the thigh on my jeans. Ratty. I look decidedly ratty in comparison to the city's meticulously coiffed and runway-inspired women who strolled the cobblestone streets. Thank God no one could see me. For at home, I could pass muster at the chicest grocery store in town. Here? I wasn't dressed—or manicured—well enough to take out the trash.

  "Are you listening to me?” Jenny's voice slammed into my head and I realized I'd been daydreaming.

  "Hmm?"

  "I said, I saw Paul last night. He looked horrible. Just terrible, Kim. Remember how he looked in high school after he'd had mono? Drawn and pale? Well, that's pretty much how he looks now, too. I nearly cringed when I saw him. And I didn't know what to say, either."

  "You're saying my leaving has given him a case of mono?"

  "No, that's not what I'm saying and you know it! It's just that he looks like crap and ... and I just thought you'd want to know.” Jenny had made no secret of the fact she thought I was temporarily insane when I'd planned this trip. She'd also been vocal about her views on Paul's undying love for me. She'd as much as said I'd never find another guy to love me the way he does. Not being pissed over comments like that wasn't easy, but hey, everyone's entitled to their opinion. And Jenny's motivation—if not her viewpoint—was in my best interest.

  Rising, I said, “He'll get over me, the same way he got over mono. Really, in the long run it'll be
better for all of us. He wanted what I can't give, Jen. Not with him. Who knows? Maybe not with anyone."

  "Is it really so terrible, what Paul's asking? I mean really, it's not like he's proposing something criminal or deadly. He loves you, for Chrissake!"

  In my mind I could see Jenny pacing as she spoke, running her fingers through her long, blonde hair, her hazel eyes flashing over what she considered my obstinacy. Mirror images of each other on the outside, yet so different inside. Jenny has been engaged to her high school sweetheart, Josh, since we were seventeen. She couldn't possibly understand how I felt about marrying Paul.

  "But I don't love him, not that way! Can't you even try to understand?” I plowed my hand through my hair, snagging a finger on one of the large silver hoops I wore. There was no need to look at my twin to know she wore tasteful pearls or diamond studs. Like I said, we're like night and day. “I can't do it—marriage. The big M. The tie that binds, the ... the noose that chokes. Or at least that's the way it would have been with him, I know it."

  "Fine. But did you have to go so far to decide this?"

  Ah, the crux of the matter. We were back to her missing me. And why not? She had a wedding to plan, and with me here she'd have to do most of it herself. I knew I'd let her down, but dammit, this is my time. I need it. I deserve it.

  And I won't feel guilty over it. Well, hardly.

  My voice softened. “I did. Please, remember you can email and we can IM all you want. I'll help plan your wedding, but from a distance. And I won't miss your special day, not for anything."

  "Promise?"

  "You know I do. And who knows? Maybe I'll even find someone special to bring home with me for the ceremony. And Paul—maybe he'll have found someone new by then. Hey, sometimes we need to move forward, Jen. This is my way of moving."

  I heard a long breath from the other end of the phone line and smiled. Jenny was seeing reason. And the family says I'm the stubborn one! Go figure.

  "I know. Really, I do. I just wish you could be here. Honestly, I wish you could be getting married with me. Remember? We always planned a double wedding, and now—"

  "Now you'll get the spotlight all to yourself,” I soothed. “Listen, I've got to run. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

  "All right. Love you."

  "Love you, too."

  "Kim?"

  "Mm?"

  "I understand,” Jenny said softly. “Really, I do. I'm being selfish, wanting our childhood plans to work out now. Forgive me?"

  "Of course I do. Not all dreams are meant to be lived, Jen. The wedding scenario? That's one dream that's best left in our memories, I think."

  Plopping the clunky receiver down on the phone cradle, I sighed. Paul's face filled my mind. Dating him had been difficult, even at the best of times. Leaving him had been nearly impossible. But I knew it was the best thing I could do. For both of us.

  Glancing toward the wide wall of glass, I caught a glimpse of the skyline outside. The rooftops of the city were silhouetted against a darkening sky. The sight was impossible to resist. Running my hand across my backside, I quickly considered changing before heading out.

  "Fuck it. Paris will have to deal with the ratty outfit and bare face. Besides, who's going to notice me anyway? One more art student in this city?” I grabbed my bag and slung it on my shoulder as I turned toward the door. “No one. No one's going to notice me. And if they do, they'll just think I'm just another crass tourist."

  Being a stranger in a foreign land had its advantages. Anonymity. A wealth of new sights and sounds. New people. And no one who could see the relief I was experiencing—or my guilty pleasure over it—at leaving Paul behind. No one.

  I hoped.

  * * * *

  Humming, I make no effort to move quickly. I feel alive for the first time in a long time. The late day sun warms me; a breeze lifts the hair at the nape of my neck. The air is sultry and spicy as cafés open up onto the sidewalk and prepare their late-day offerings. Scents of gastronomical delights waft enticingly through wide open doorways.

  My stomach growls. I haven't eaten anything today. I consider stopping for a crepe, but I'm too busy absorbing the sights and sounds to give in to the demands of my body. There'll be time to fill my belly later.

  I narrowly avoid being knocked over by a pair of German tourists toting bulky camera bags as I turn toward the steps leading to the Metro station. The trip from Charles de Gaulle airport had been by taxi but if I'm going to spend the summer here I'll have to learn to use the public transportation system sooner or later. Why wait? There's no time like the present.

  The posted schedule tells me I'm right on time. The next train should pull in any minute now. It doesn't matter where it's going. I've got no agenda, have I?

  The tracks, as well as the station itself, are remarkably clean. No homeless panhandlers, no garbage littering the rails and no mysterious puddles in the dark corners of the station. In fact, there are no dark corners. Everything is well-lit, illuminated by huge fluorescent fixtures on antique-looking chains.

  The platform begins to fill up. I try not to stare as I watch tourists mingle with commuters. Residents stand out from the crowd, their sophisticated fashions and immaculate grooming making them look like they've just stepped from the pages of fashion magazines. For an instant I feel woefully out of place, but a fresh influx of brightly attired tourists lets me blend into the background—or so I imagine.

  Then I see him, and I forget about everything and everyone else, myself included. He wears ass-hugging jeans, a tight black t-shirt and scuffed black motorcycle boots. Gorgeous—he's perfectly gorgeous. Not just handsome, but out-and-out pussy-warming stunning. Muscular without being muscle bound, he's got a broad back, slim waist and tapered hips and his hair, a warm, deep shade of chestnut brown, is styled so it brushes his collar. The stranger has chiseled features, with high cheekbones and full, sexy lips. And his eyes, they're—

  Staring. Right at me. My face grows hot beneath his open appraisal. His glance travels up and down, lingering on my breasts whose nipples pebble in response. Just when I think I can't stand another moment of intense scrutiny, he smiles.

  "Bonjour.” His voice is smooth and rich. A tiny thrill shoots through my body, making my nipples almost painfully hard. My crotch dampens, and I shift slightly without thinking. As my thighs spark a tremor of fresh desire in my sex, I feel my cheeks grow hotter. Can he know how much he turns me on?

  "Bonjour.” The words come out evenly, much more coolly than I expect them to. Thank God, there's no tremor in my voice. Only in my pussy, it seems. “Hello."

  "Ah, I thought you must be American.” A lock of hair falls forward onto his brow, and he sweeps it back casually. The careless gesture, so intimate yet easy, excites me further. There is a definite tightening at the apex of my thighs. “I suspected as much."

  Great. I must really look like a tourist.

  "You suspected I'm American?” My eyebrows rise. I hope I look charming, flirtatious even, despite my disheveled appearance. “I'm almost afraid to ask, but what made you suspect something like that? Why not German, Italian or Scandinavian, even? Why American?"

  The crowd on the platform swells. We step closer and for the first time I see how tall he is. At five nine, I'm only chest high on him.

  He smiles. It's a full, broad parting of lips and I feel like an ice cube on a steamy sidewalk. The man is sex on legs, and he makes my legs wobbly. Very wobbly.

  "It was a natural assumption, really,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. “I could not consider you any of the other things you mentioned. No, never."

  "Why not?” There is no logical reason for pressing him, but I can't stop myself from asking. Anything, any topic of conversation will do, as long as it keeps his smooth-as-silk voice filling the space between us. In the distance I hear the first rumbling of the approaching train.

  "Oh, many things. A German would most likely be carrying a camera, like those over there.” He inclines his head. I'v
e already noticed the group so I acknowledge his observation with a nod. “An Italian woman? Never without an elegant little handbag—something that you are not carrying.” His gaze sweeps over my body again. For the first time since I've left the apartment, I don't know what to do with my hands. Just barely I resist the urge to shove them in my pockets. “No, you are confident enough to go out into the world without a bag. I like that."

  "Thanks,” I murmur, suddenly tongue tied.

  "And the other one? What was the other one you mentioned?” He leans close and I get a whiff of his cologne. Something spicy, it makes my insides quiver. “It was...?"

  "Scandinavian. Why didn't you figure me for a Scandinavian woman?” The game has gone from unsettling to fun in no time. I find I'm eager for his reply. “Hmm?"

  With a roll of two of the deepest brown eyes I've ever seen, the stranger lifts his palms. No wedding band on his hand. Good.

  "Scandinavian? I admit I am not even certain that I have ever seen a Scandinavian woman, not knowingly at least,” he says, a deep, throaty chuckle accompanying his words. “No, you have all the outward appearances of an American woman. Beautiful. Confident enough to go into the world without anything unnecessary, like handbags, cameras or fluffy little dogs. No, you look like a woman who knows what she wants."

  The sound of the approaching train forces me to raise my voice. “You're pretty observant, aren't’ you?"

  "I try to be. You never can tell when something will cross your path that should be observed,” he says with a devilish smile. “Some things should be examined carefully, I think. What about you? Do you believe in recognizing something of value when it comes into your path? Seeing what you want? And taking it?"

  Chapter Two

  Luc grins, gazing across the scarred wooden tabletop as he leans close. The candle's flame glitters in his dark eyes. As he looks deeply into my eyes, I wonder if he can see my secrets. My longing. My past, present and future. It would be wonderful to think he can, but at this moment I hardly care. All I know is I want him, very much. I want Luc and after a few pitchers of local brew, I believe I'll do anything I have to in order to get him. Naked, preferably.