Anew: Book One: Awakened

by Litton, Josie

  My confidence that I can function on my own clearly surprises him but he nods. “I’ll see you there.”

  When he is gone, I close the bedroom doors behind him and rest my forehead against them as I struggle to ignore the tremors running through me. I have no idea why I am in the palazzo or where I was before the moment I opened my eyes. Beyond what my host, if that is the proper term for him, tells me is my name, I know nothing of my own identity.

  Nonetheless, I am fully aware of at least one unavoidable truth. The strange docility I feel is not natural. I have to free myself from it but how?

  Lacking an answer, I walk farther into the room until I am standing at the foot of the bed. I try to imagine myself sleeping in it and fail but… Without warning, my mind flashes through a series of images that can only be described as lurid--entwined limbs, intimate caresses, pleasures given and received. I gasp at what such knowledge implies about the past I cannot remember.

  Turning away quickly, I find myself staring into a large gilded mirror opposite the bed that reflects both its golden image and the woman standing at its foot.

  She appears to be in her very early twenties, slightly above medium height and slender with chestnut hair that falls below her shoulders. Her features are delicate, the jaw softly rounded and the nose tapered and narrow. In contrast, her mouth is full, even lush. Her eyes dominate the perfect oval of her face. Large and thickly fringed, they are a startling shade of aquamarine.

  She is, I suppose, beautiful but her appearance alone tells me nothing about myself. Still, I persevere. The shift comes off over my head and is tossed onto the floor. Naked, I stare into the mirror at high, firm breasts that look a little large for my overall size, tipped with pale pink aureoles and raspberry hued nipples. Below them is a slim, tucked in waist that flares into slender hips above well toned thighs. In the space between them, I can see the cleft of my sex. From it rises a narrow chestnut strip that is the only hair I have below my head. My arms and legs are slim, my back long and narrow, dipping into the rounded curve of my bottom.

  Moving closer to the mirror, I stare at myself intently, turning and twisting as I do. Nothing I can see gives me any idea of why I can’t remember who I am or how I came to be here. No visible injury or scar hints at a trauma that could explain my loss of memory.

  The closer I look, the more I realize that my skin is completely unmarred. No blemish of any kind interrupts its polished alabaster smoothness.

  How can this be? Did I never fall as a child, never skin a knee or elbow? Never get a nick or a freckle? Never acquire even the most modest evidence of having lived?

  My skin chills suddenly as a wave of nausea moves through me. Something is wrong but I am not at all sure that I am ready to know what it is. Perhaps Ian is right to put off answering my questions until tomorrow but whether he is or not, time is passing. He’s expecting me in the gallery before much longer.

  Quickly, I explore the rest of what turns out to be a suite including a pretty sitting room with a fireplace and a couch that looks perfect for curling up on to read. A walnut-paneled dressing room fitted with drawers and closets appears at a quick glance to hold more clothes and accessories than a person could wear in a lifetime. Nearby there is a vermilion and ivory marble bathroom.

  Bypassing the sunken tub, I open the glass door to a large shower. The moment I do so, hot water scented with jasmine gushes from half-a-dozen strategically placed jets. I step under them and groan softly as muscles I hadn’t realized were knotted begin to unclench. I have washed over every inch of myself before I realize that none of this is strange to me.

  I understand how everything works as well as the use of the various soaps, oils, and lotions. When I turn off the water, I expect the warm caress of air jets drying my hair and body. Bereft though I am of both identity and memory, I nonetheless appear equipped to function in the world where I find myself.

  What else do I know and how do I know it? I’m still pondering that as I stand before the bathroom mirror and quickly braid my hair, then coil it around my head, securing it at the back with golden pins that I find in a bowl on the marble counter. The result is a gleaming, silken diadem from which a few soft tendrils escape. I can’t explain how I know to fix my hair this way but just then I don’t particularly care.

  Mindful that time is passing, and that I don’t want Ian to come looking for me, I pull lingerie from a drawer in the dressing room and put it on quickly.

  The gown I choose looks plain enough on the hanger but when I zip it up and glance in the dressing room mirror, I see how misleading that is. The rich velvet is the exact shade of my eyes and seems to accentuate every curve of my body. The neckline rises high in the back to skim the nape of my neck but leaves my shoulders and the curve of my upper arms entirely bare while exposing the swell of my breasts emphasized by the demi-cup bra. The sleeves are long and so snugly fit that they feel binding. When I turn, the skirt flares before falling back into place with a soft murmur along my hips and thighs.

  I hesitate, thinking that I should change but a quick look through the several dozen other gowns convinces me that nothing is more modest than what I already have on.

  I’m still debating what to do when my stomach rumbles. I am startled to realize that I’m hungry. That decides the matter. I strap on heels and leave the room.

  Retracing my steps, I hurry down the curving staircase, holding my long skirt up a few inches so that it flows behind me as I pass through the palazzo’s central hall and along the arcade. There I force myself to slow before I step out onto the gallery.

  While I showered and dressed, night has fallen. The last vestiges of the sunset tint the west in shades of purple and lavender but elsewhere the sky is filling with stars. The view is stunning but it can’t hold my attention once I see the man seated nearby at a small circular table graciously set for two.

  Catching sight of me, Ian rises. As he does so, he smoothes a hand down the length of the pewter silk tie he wears, slightly lighter than the dark charcoal gray suit he has changed into.

  Earlier, in a black T-shirt and jeans, he looked formidable. This Ian still does but he is also elegant, commanding, and I sense, even more dangerous to my equilibrium than I have realized.

  His gaze is so intent that for a moment I cannot move. Only with the greatest effort do I manage to collect myself enough to cross the remaining distance between us.

  My head is up and I have even found a smile but that falters as I draw closer and see for the first time the full extent of the dark, surging passion behind eyes that glitter with the hard sheen of amber.

  On the gallery lit by tall torchères raised on wrought iron tripods, I have the sudden, inescapable impression that whatever else is on the menu this night, I’m his choice for dessert.

  Chapter Three

  Ian

  My hands are shaking. How is that even possible? No woman gets to me like this. None. Except apparently her.

  It’s my own fault. I should have listened more carefully to what they had to say at the Institute but I was so damned shocked and angry. A year since Susannah’s death, a year of genuinely mourning and missing her, and then a single call flips my world upside down.

  Damn them, damn her, damn… No, I can’t damn Susannah, not even now. Whatever she did, she would have believed that it was for the best. The problem is her, Amelia. She’s not what I expected, not remotely. She’s warm, vibrant, gorgeous as hell and so exquisitely vulnerable.

  I’m a total bastard. Watching her coming along the gallery in a gown that matches her remarkable eyes and looks about to slip off her body, the most lurid fantasies start looping in my head. I only just managed to walk away from her an hour ago and now I’m supposed to get through dinner pretending that I don’t want to lay her across the table and fuck her until we’re both senseless?

  I stand with some difficulty and hold out her chair. “Good evening, Amelia. You look lovely.” I sound so civilized that I almost laugh. If she had any idea
what I’m really thinking--

  Her smile, which had begun to falter, returns. She sits down gracefully. I catch a whiff of her scent--jasmine and something else that’s pure Amelia--before I resume my seat.

  Dropping my napkin strategically into my lap, I ask, “Did you find everything you need?”

  “I did, thank you.” Her voice is soft, melodious, the kind of voice that begs a man to lean in closer.

  It’s having just that effect on me when Hodgkin appears, wine bottle in hand. Glad of the reprieve, I sit back and give him a nod to pour. Amelia glances up as he does so. Her smile acknowledging him is spontaneous and genuine. He returns it and flashes me a quick look that speaks volumes starting with “She’s really something.” And going straight through to “You’re a better man than this.”

  We’ll see.

  “This is Hodgkin,” I tell her. “If you need anything and I’m not around, he’ll do his best to get it for you.” Assuming I’ve approved it ahead of time but I don’t see any reason to spell that out, not yet.

  This earns me another breathy ‘thank you’. I’m wondering how many I can collect and what I’ll cash them in for when, without any warning, she says, “There’s something I need to ask you.”

  “What’s that?” I don’t quite manage to conceal my surprise. She’s more assertive than I expected.

  “Have I been drugged?”

  “What? No, of course not! Why would you even wonder that?”

  Aside from the fact that I have very strong views against drugs, the idea that I would want her to be subdued by anything other than me is absurd.

  “When I woke up and realized that I have no idea who I am,” she says, “I was afraid, even panicky. I think that was an understandable reaction but it didn’t last. Instead, I felt removed from my own emotions, as though insulated from them in some strange way. And then, once you appeared, it got worse. I seemed to have no will of my own.”

  She tilts her head slightly and shoots me a look that spears straight to my groin. “With all that I don’t know about myself, I’m still certain that being so compliant isn’t natural for me.”

  Hodgkin is back in time to hear this. He chokes down a laugh as he sets the appetizers in front of us.

  In what I hope is a neutral tone, I inquire, “You don’t feel that way now?”

  “A little still but I’m determined to fight it. I don’t like being helpless. If drugs weren’t the cause, what was?”

  Carefully, more mindful than ever that I don’t understand what I’m dealing with, I say, “It’s probably just a result of the conditioning you were given to prepare you before you awoke. Don’t worry about it.”

  She stares at me in silence for a moment, then picks up a fork, spears a small, round scallop glistening with beurre blanc sauce and lifts it toward her full, soft mouth. I’m watching its progress so closely that I almost miss her next question.

  “Conditioning by whom?”

  “The people who were taking care of you.”

  Belatedly, I realize that she’s brought me to the verge of the discussion that I’ve already said is to be postponed until tomorrow for her own good. I don’t assume that she’s trying to manipulate me. Surely she isn’t capable of that? But the sooner she understands the futility of any such effort, the better.

  “That’s all I’ll say on the subject for now. You’ll get a decent night’s sleep, your mind will be clearer, and then we’ll talk. Understand?”

  This isn’t negotiable. Now that I’m face-to-face with her, the Institute’s recommendations that I did manage to glean make more sense than ever. Don’t overburden her with too much information too quickly. Make the first day about coming to terms with her newly awakened senses and her surroundings. Above all, establish authority.

  That last part should be easy for me so why am I having so much trouble with it?

  She slides the scallop into her mouth, chews delicately, and swallows. A silken drop of the sauce clings to her lower lip.

  In that soft, breathy voice, she says, “Perfectly.” A little dap of her napkin and she adds, “Since you aren’t willing to talk about me, let’s talk about you. Who are you?”

  “I told you, my name is Ian--”

  “Ian Slade. That really doesn’t tell me anything. Who are you?”

  I stare at her cautiously. She’s managed to take me by surprise--again. People know who I am or at least they think they do and that’s good enough. Susannah got closer than anyone else but she never had any illusions that she’d seen anything beyond what I allowed.

  “I’m the founder and head of Slade Enterprises, a defense technology company.”

  “Is that the source of your wealth?”

  “Why do you think I’m wealthy?”

  She makes a small gesture that encompasses the gallery, the garden, the totality of our surroundings. “One of your homes? The Medici didn’t live like this.”

  Despite myself, I smile. Not many people are willing to spar with me verbally or in any other way. “Point taken. The truth is I was born into an affluent family and I’ve made it more so. It’s not an unusual story.”

  The actual truth is more complicated, having to do with being born the scion of one of the wealthiest families on the planet and deciding that I didn’t want anything to do with the princely role that I’d been cast into by birth and fate. But I don’t talk about that, not with anyone.

  Amelia nods. “Wealth begets wealth. I understand that but how did you get involved in defense technology, or was that your family’s business?”

  I give her the standard company bio. “When I was eighteen, I enlisted in the military. I spent five years in the Special Forces. By the time I got out, I’d developed some ideas for improving defense tech. I used my family’s global media company for seed money and went on from there.”

  For a moment, I think she will ask why at eighteen I rejected the standard path laid out for the children of elite families and didn’t attend one of the select schools intended to prepare us for our pre-ordained roles as masters of the universe. If she does go there, she’ll find out quickly just how hard I can shut down a line of inquiry when I choose to.

  But instead, she asks, “You liquidated your family’s company? Wasn’t that taking a big chance?”

  Most people thought I was insane at the time but that isn’t worth mentioning.

  “It paid off,” I say. “Slade Enterprises is pre-eminent in the global market. We have complete penetration into every aspect of security and defense worldwide.”

  I watch with amusement as my choice of words prompts a blush that spreads across her lovely features. She really is remarkably beautiful but I wouldn’t have expected anything less.

  “Of course,” I add, “some claim that we’re more oriented toward offense than defense but that’s just semantics.”

  She raises a finely tapered brow. “Is it? Clauswitz said that war is nothing more than an extension of diplomacy. Are you saying that it’s nothing more than a variant of defense?”

  My mouth drops open. I snap it shut as I contemplate her familiarity with the 19th century Prussian general and military theorist whose insights into the nature of war helped shape my own.

  “It can be seen that way,” I say as I try to remember if Susannah ever expressed the slightest interest in Clauswitz or any aspect of war theory for that matter but I’m coming up blank. “How is it that you’re familiar with his work?”

  Softly, with a thread of frustration, she says, “I can’t explain how I know anything, at least not yet.”

  I’d like to consider the possible ramifications of what she knows but the play of light from the torchères along the swell of her breasts proves too distracting. All I can do is stare at her.

  She looks up, meeting my gaze. Something flickers behind her eyes--uncertainty, arousal, some combination of both? She frowns, as though confronted by a puzzle she is determined to solve.

  “Do we know each other?” she asks.

&n
bsp; “You tell me. Do we?”

  A flash of annoyance darts across her face, further knocking me off balance. Clearly, she resents my refusal to be more forthcoming.

  With hindsight, I realize that I’ve made assumptions about her that urgently need to be revisited. She has a far stronger will than I expected as well as the courage to act on it. That could prove troublesome but at the same time I can’t deny that it’s highly provocative.

  I’m far more entertained by her than I expected. Far more aroused as well but I can control that. I have to.

  “I feel as though I should know you,” she says. “But at the same time I’m fairly certain that we’ve never met before.”

  “We haven’t.”

  She seems to accept that, at least for the moment. I draw her into a conversation about the finer points of war theory. She has a fairly comprehensive grasp of the subject. If this was an interview for a job with my firm, she’d be acing it.

  We’ve gotten to a comparison of the differences between Clauswitz, Machiavelli, and Sun Tsu when Hodgkin appears with the entrees. Mine is a filet in peppercorn sauce. Hers is pasta primavera. When he’s poured the wines and departed, I realize that she’s staring at my plate with what can only be described as salacious intent. I can practically see her mouth watering.

  “I thought you didn’t eat meat,” I say. Susannah didn’t. I expected Amelia to be the same.

  “Don’t I?” She’s still staring at the filet. If she’s anywhere near as avid in her other appetites--

  On impulse, I move her plate and glass off to the side and put mine between us. I cut a small piece of the filet and offer it to her. She hesitates but the temptation proves too much. As our gazes meet, she reaches for the fork.

  I withdraw it slightly and say, “Open your mouth.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she does so. I make a mental note that she can be compliant when she’s given sufficient incentive and take the piece of filet off the fork. Using my fingers, I slowly slide it between her lips. Her small white teeth grab on and do the rest. By the time she finishes chewing and swallows, her eyes are closed and she has an ecstatic look on her face.