Rapture of the desert

by Violet Winspear

  "I am sure I would." And now in place of that lonely figure she had imagined, she saw him cloaked by firelight, a slumbrous delight a gleam in his eyes as he listened to the barbaric music of the East.

  "Why do you come to Europe when your heart is in the desert?" she asked him.

  "To see Miroslava, my child. And to singe my wings in the way of a bachelor. I am thirty-three, Chrysdova. Would you have me live like a monk?"

  "It is none of my business how you live, Prince Anton." She had expected him to be honest, but all the same she didn't like the little sting his honesty left like a welt across her own guarded heart and body.

  "Would you sooner hear that I keep a harem at Belle Tigresse?" he mocked. "I leave alone the daughters of my desert clansmen, not because I don't find them lovely, but because I should soon have a harem on my hands if I dared make love to any of those girls. Their fathers would then make me a gift of them — do you see how it is ?"

  Suddenly she did see and her sense of humour reasserted itself. "Yes, I do see, milor. Better to make a fool of a society belle, even if it means getting shot for your trouble."

  He laughed softly by her side, with a sort of purring menace. "I was not having an affair with that particular young lady, but no matter. You must understand that I am several men in one. I have Russian blood in which there is also Tartar blood. I was born in a desert house, the son of a Russian and a Frenchwoman from Paris. I was brought up among tribesmen, sent

  to France to be educated, and to serve for a while in her army. I sometimes wonder myself if my soul has the shape of a triangle."

  This time Chrys laughed. "Do you feel strange when you come to Kent, milor? It is all so very English, so green with a vista of blue where the sea locks in the land."

  "English as yourself, matushka. Gold, blue and green." The meaning in his voice was all too plain, and a quick glance at his profile showed her the line of silent laughter beside his mouth. He swung the car with graceful expertise around a bend in the road and there ahead of them lay one of those arrestingly pretty villages only to be seen in England, with cottage-type houses in which hollyhocks stood tall and deep-belled in the small front gardens, and with a small inn about halfway down the road, its black and white timbering catching the sunlight and its mullioned windows like gleaming, friendly eyes.

  "Would you like to stop for a drink?" Anton asked her. "We have plenty of time — all day, in fact, to spend at the beach."

  "It would be nice," she said. "It does look a quaint old place — and so very English."

  He laughed in that purring way of his and turned the car into the driveway fronting the inn, which was named the Plough. The car slid to a smooth halt and Anton leaned over to open the door beside Chrys, and at once she was on the defensive against his physical closeness, and the brush of his darkly lashed eyes over her face.

  "Are you to be your sister's bridesmaid?" he asked, unexpectedly.

  "Why — yes." She was startled by his question, and this widened her eyes and intensified their blueness as she looked at him, held there in her seat by his extended arm.

  "Have you no wish yourself, matushka, to be a bride?"

  "I told you — marriage would interfere with my career."

  "Marriage would become you," he murmured. "You were made for a man, not for an audience to enjoy."

  "Anton — please —"

  "Please?" He quirked an eyebrow and leaned a little nearer to her, so that she felt the warmth of his brown skin and felt in him all the vital desires of a man in the very prime of life. "What would you like me to do to please you — treat you as if you were my maiden aunt ?"

  "Be nice and don't flirt," she pleaded. "Tomorrow we both go our separate ways and this — this could be a day to remember without regret."

  "Would you regret my lovemaking?" His tone was half-mocking, and yet his eyes were beautifully still and serious. "I should light a candle in a chapel to the memory of it. Beauty and innocence are a rare conquest, these days." So saying he flung open the car door, and she caught the brief ravishment of his eyes as she fled from him into the inn. It was cool in there, with a few people seated on the oak settles, or leaning against the bar. Heads turned to study her, and then the man who followed her into the lounge. The way these Kent farmers looked at Anton made her want to laugh, nervously. He was so very foreign by contrast to them. So tall and dark and illimitably sure of himself. His fingers sought her elbow and she knew instinctively that he was letting the other men know that she was his!

  She didn't pull away ... it was safe to surrender to him in the company of other people.

  "And what will you have, sir?" As always Anton commanded service without raising an eyebrow. He glanced at Chrys and she said she would have a Campari and soda.

  "Make that two," he said to the barman, after which he took a long, interested look round the lounge,

  while Chrys seated herself on one of the bar stools and tried to look as composed as the various glances in their direction would allow.

  "I believe," Anton murmured, "these good people think we are a couple of the jet set. Do you mind? That I have this odd effect on the English ?"

  She smiled a little and knew that his question held a double meaning.

  "You have the look of what you are, milor," she said.

  "And what is that, matushka?" He gazed down at her with mocking eyes.

  "Prince Lucifer! "

  "You dare to say that — here. Would you care to say it when we are alone?"

  "Why, don't you care for the truth?" She gave a laugh and lifted her drink to her lips. "You are fond of dishing it out to other people, I have noticed."

  "So I am! So you think of me as the dark angel, eh? Fallen from the good graces of heaven ?"

  "Mmmm " She nodded. "Ever since we met you have been trying to make me fall — now haven't you, Prince — Anton?"

  His eyes held hers, glinting like steel, mesmeric, shutting out all other faces so that only his dark face filled her world in that moment. "From the first moment we entered that lift, you and I, we were like two stars bound upon a clash. The impact has been shattering, eh? When we part neither of us will easily forget this meeting — confess that, at least! "

  "Of course I confess it," she said. "It isn't every day that a girl meets Lucifer in the flesh."

  His eyes slowly narrowed in a smile . . . a dangerous smile. "If you want me to prove that I am no angel, cherie, then you are going the right way about it." His fingers touched her bare arm for the briefest moment, and it was as if a flame ran over her. She tautened . for there was in his touch a bewitching, enslaving, seducing quality.

  "I am a person, not a puppet," she retorted. "You can't do just as you please with me. I have more to do with my life than be your plaything for the little while it takes you to become bored with your toys."

  "Do you really believe that my life is littered with discarded playthings?" He laughed a little and drank his Campari. "Is it part of your defence that you have to believe me entirely cruel? Dare you not believe that I can also be tender ?"

  "L'amour tendre," she murmured. "And then amour tragique."

  "My child, I avoid hearts that I might break," he drawled. "Tell me, am I in danger of breaking yours ?" "Mine, milor, is given to my career."

  "Then if I make love to you I cannot really harm you — not if your heart is not involved."

  "My pride would be involved, milor, and I don't care to be the caprice of a Russian prince, thank you all the same for the offer."

  "If I had to in the desert, you piece of English ice, I would soon have you melting. You have no idea how seducing the desert can be upon the senses, especially at night when all is silent and the stars flood the sky and the jasmine awakes in the enclosed gardens. I see you there, in a lovely silk robe of blue, the border of each hanging sleeve embroidered with fleurs de lys." He lit a cheroot as he spoke and flame and smoke tangled together in the glance he gave her. "There is a place to which I ride when the dawn
arises all veined with black and scarlet. I call it the Jade Oasis, and never on this earth was there a place more lovely, or more lonely. Think of riding with me, dorogaya. Does your blood not stir in your veins, Chrysdova?"

  It did . . . uncomfortably so, and she didn't protest when he indicated to the barman that two more drinks be brought to them. She wanted her senses to be dulled, not tingling as he had just set them tingling with his too vivid description of his wonderful oasis.

  "Have you taken many of your European con

  quests to see your Jade Oasis?" she asked in a deliberately cool voice. "I am sure they were enchanted, by the place and by your escort."

  "Don't, child," he leaned close to her, and his teeth gleamed white through the smoke of his cheroot, "try me too close to the edge of my Russian temper."

  "Why — would you whip me?" She dared his eyes, her own eyes flashing jewel-blue with her defiance of him and her response to what lay in the heart of his desert. Surely only a mirage and nothing that could be firmly grasped as a real and lasting heaven. She would not be coaxed by his mirage only to find herself left thirsting in the desert. He was too attractive, too devilish to be listened to.

  "A whipping you could take." His eyes raked over her, taking in the youthful pride and defiance. "I should have to use a thousand kisses to defeat you and bend you to the sand."

  "You think I'd let you?" She gave a scornful little laugh, but avoided looking at his lips, in which a touch of cruelty mingled with a certain quirk of tenderness.

  "Most women would think it cruel not to be desired," he drawled. "You really are an extraordinary creature, Chrysdova."

  "Why, because I resist your wiles, Prince Anton?" "Are you quite certain they are wiles ?"

  "The art to charm and the ability to conquer lie in your eyes, milor. You are like a falcon, but I am no dove. I have been trained to obey my maitre de ballet, but beyond that I am my own mistress and I intend to remain so."

  "You prefer water when I can give you wine?" "What — yin du mal?" she shot back at him.

  "That, Chrysdova, is not nice." Instantly his fingers were about her wrist and he was making her aware of the steel and fire in his touch. "You are a delight to the eyes, but you have a shocking distrust of men. Truly a sand-cat, far readier to scratch than to purr. By heaven, I'll make you purr before I am finished

  with you! "

  Still holding her by the wrist he pulled her from the bar stool and walked her out of the inn. She didn't dare to struggle for her freedom, not in front of those people in the lounge, but when they reached the car she dug her fingernails into him and demanded her release. "I'm not coming with you to the beach," she flared. "I'm going back to London."

  "Scared ?" he taunted. "Afraid of a mere man?"

  "Damn brute! " she flung at him, and then gave a gasp as he swept her up in his arms and dropped her neatly into the front seat of the Rapier.

  "And stay there! " he ordered, striding round to the other side and sliding in behind the wheel. "You stay where you are, my girl, and like it! "

  "I hate you! " she stormed, nursing her wrist. "I really do hate your arrogance. It's written all over you! You're so used to playing lord of the land that you can't bear it when a mere woman stands up to you. You like women to be horizontal — weak and willing —"

  "Stop it! " he ordered. "In a moment you will be in tears."

  "Never! I wouldn't cry for you if you were —" Sharply she broke off and turned her head away from him The car shot away from the inn and sped along the road to the sea. Tears were blinding her eyes and making a haze of the sun, and she hated that as well. Never in her life had she felt so on edge with anyone; never had life felt so complicated, not even when she had lain in a hospital bed and feared for her future as a dancer. There had been doctors to reassure her, nurses to soothe away her fears — but right now there was no one but herself to fight her battle. She was all alone with Anton... and a broken heart was harder to mend than a broken bone or two.

  The beach at Applegate was long and undulating, with

  fine tan-coloured sands and groups of rocks at the

  sea's edge to make it picturesque. The waves came in

  to the beach in long silky swirls, whipping softly back and forth against the rocks. It wasn't a crowded beach, but Chrys was very relieved to see a few family groups, and young people in the water, their laughter flung and caught in the net of the sun and the spindrift.

  After parking the car Anton had made Chrys go with him to a shop that sold beach wear, and he had bought her a white suit, a pair of scarlet waders, and a beach ball. With mockery incarnate in his eyes he had tossed the ball into her arms. "Something for you to play with," he had jibed. "Something nice and safe, and if you lose it what will it matter? No one will weep over a lost beach ball, will they, matushka."

  Down on the beach he had sought out the attendant and hired a beach hut, and now Chrys was inside, the flap closed against intrusion while she took off her clothes and stepped into the one-piece bathing suit. As she pulled the soft white material up over her limbs, up over her hips and her bust and slipped the straps over her shoulders, she felt tiny nerves contracting in her stomach.

  With an assumption of nonchalance she was far from feeling Chrys left the beach but and was glad to find that Anton had quitted the steps and was halfway down the beach talking to a small girl. Chrys heard him laugh, and for the first time that sensuous, purring sound was absent from his laughter and she felt a strange little shock of — of envy. How nice to be young enough to be unafraid of his charm . . . and Chrys ran towards the sea, flying into its embrace as if in search of protection.

  She was swimming lazily when Anton joined her, and she told herself he was like a lean, brown tiger-shark swimming around her, brushing her legs with his fingertips, teasing and agile, and then suddenly gone from her side as he swam out and out into the dazzle of the hot sun on the water. She told herself she wouldn't follow him, and then she just had to, for the lure of the sea was upon her and she was a good swimmer, hav-

  ing been born on the sea coast and possessed of parents who believed in the health giving properties of the ocean.

  "Race you to the beach! " he called out, when she had almost caught up with him.

  She turned with all the grace of her dancing body and side by side they swam back to the sands, into the waves that were curling there. Anton gave a hand to her and almost unthinking she took it and was drawn to him as if she were a pin, a feather, a plume of bright water, her hair a long wet mane unloosened from its knot, and each curve of her slender body almost nude in the thin white covering of the bathing suit.

  She had no time to catch her breath as a warm wet arm locked itself about her, firm as whipcord, and not to be denied. His mouth came down to hers and with a kind of sea-drugged, sun-drugged compliance she allowed her lips to be taken and roughly, firmly caressed by his. Her hands came up against his chest, half protesting, and then stilled by the shock of pleasure, contracting all the many tiny, sentiently placed nerves in her slim, cloistered body.

  He was so close to her, all pewter smooth and firmly muscled, that it was as if for a split moment in time, a forked second of pure lightning, they were fused into a smouldering unit of one. It was he who drew away first, leaving on her mouth, and on her waist, the impress of his lips and his hands. She tossed back her hair and unable to meet his eyes she looked instead at the long, deep scar on the left side of his chest, just about where his heart would be.

  "Ma doue!" His eyes were shimmering. "What a swim — and what a kiss! "

  "You'd have hurt me if I hadn't let you." High on her cheekbones she could feel a flush, and on her lips she could still taste the sea water from his lips ... so intimate, almost like the taste of tears. "It is easy enough for men to be brutes — they know very well that women are sensitive to pain."

  "Hush, child! " His arm swept down as if he were a Czarist cutting down a malcontent. "Don't be so sure that men can't feel pain in the
very marrow of them. They are equally human, and you have a lot to learn about them."

  "Do you plan to be my tutor?" she demanded. "Was that lesson number one? Good heavens, lesson number two must really be something! "

  "Indeed it is." His eyes narrowed to a shimmery grey. "Would you like me to demonstrate? We could go straight through the course."

  He took a deliberate step towards her and she retreated so hastily that she tripped over a rock and fell to the sands before she could save herself. She lay there breathless while he towered over her and looked down at her with the threat of more of that devastating lovemaking in his gaze. She had to find a weapon against him and she began to laugh. "Oh, Apollo, who caught at love and filled his arms with bays! "

  "Chrysdova, lovely and man-scared," he mocked. "With hair such as yours, and that mouth, you should be all passion. On your feet, you little coward, and come give me my lunch."

  She knelt and made him a mock salaam. "I live but to obey your commands, lord of light. What will you have — caviare and wine?"

  His hands reached for her and swung her to her feet. He bent his head and his teeth brushed her shoulder before she could pull away. "The goose paté was very good," he jibed. "Just a little salty, but nonetheless tasty."

  "You are ridiculous!" Chrys broke free of him and ran in the direction of the beach hut, and all the time she could feel that teasing, nibbling pressure of his teeth against her shoulder. She knew the name for it, she knew that it was called love play, and she told herself she would have to find some excuse to get away from this beach before the sun waned and the sea and the sands began to go dark.

  She laid the checked cloth on the sands and took from the lunch basket the savouries and delectable-looking sandwiches Vera had packed for them. There was also a bottle of wine, and carefully wrapped wine glasses, and as she set these out Anton came and sprawled on the sands. "Hand me the corkscrew," he said. "I know there is one because I put it in myself."