Satisfied, she closed her eyes and soaked until the water began to chill. She wrapped herself in a large towel and headed to the bedroom, wondering suddenly what she would wear. Upon entering, the closet to her left stood open, revealing her wardrobe. Smiling, Grace silently thanked the kindness and foresight of Aunt Visnja and Ilija in unpacking her things for her.
She settled at the dressing table and surprise overtook her at seeing her own things about her. She had not noticed them last night in her anxious state, nor had she noticed the small square box on one of the raised sides of the vanity. Opening it, two smooth, silver disks, edged with a narrow, knotted design, lay on the velvety bottom. On each, her initials, a G and E, sat on either side of the larger Z in the center. Removing them from the box, Grace Ellen Zadrovec put them into her tiny earlobes. Admiring the handsome gift in her mirror, she saw Drago's reflection as he came up behind her. Fresh from the shower, he was clad in only a towel as she was.
“Do they please you?” he asked, reaching to remove the single clasp holding her hair and watching it spill around her.
“They're beautiful,” she beamed, reaching to push a dark lock aside to expose one shining disk. “Thank you, Drago.”
“It is a selfish gesture, Grace. I want everyone to know that you share my name.”
His hands ran over and through her hair, massaging her scalp and neck. A delicious shiver traveled under his broad hand's path, and she leaned back into his solidness. Drago continued the slow circular motions, watching her in the mirror, feeling the rise and fall of her breaths.
Why he had been blessed with Grace, he could not fathom. In his profession, finding women was not a problem. He had encountered more than his share of women willing to share his bed. In every city, young, outwardly beautiful women clamored for his attention – for any fighter's attention. But it all rang empty to him once he realized he was a commodity to be caught.
He had learned that the hard way after losing a fight in Japan. The girl he thought loved him, that he cared for enough to have at his side, never even came to see him after the fight. He had stepped wrong and torn the ligaments in his ankle, leaving him unable to defend his opponent's onslaught of punishing strikes and kicks, and had been knocked out. Instead, she had gone and partied the night away with the victor.
He had watched the same happen to many other young fighters since. It had changed him. He had sworn to remain single until he found a woman worth loving, and upon meeting Grace, he had known she was different. Her quiet, gentle manner had drawn him to her initially, and after spending time with her, he discovered an inner beauty that captured his heart. That she loved him in return humbled him.
Grace reached for the hand that had stilled on her and pulled it to her lips, drawing him from his thoughts. His face was serious. Her questioning eyes found his in the mirror.
“Drago?”
The powerful need to possess her flooded him. He needed her love, her loyalty, the sweetness of her body. Scooping her into his arms Drago carried her to their bed, coming over her protectively, his towel forgotten on the floor. The urgency of his mouth over hers stole her breath, the strength of his want overwhelming her. Grace felt both powerful and powerless in his embrace, awed anew at her husband's potency. She gave to him all he demanded with joy, her body awakening under his commanding touch. His lips left hers full and swollen from his savage kisses as he trailed down her body. Sliding the towel open, Drago claimed her breast with rugged enthusiasm. His hands stroked and caressed everywhere, her body responding without fear or hesitation, his zealousness for her urging her higher.
His mouth continued over her, moving lower to her hip and down her thigh as his hands shaped her bottom. Stroking her legs, he pushed her knees open to nip the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, wanting to leave no inch of her unexplored. Instinctively, Grace tensed, her hands at his shoulders frantic to halt his progression - without success. Stretching his sizable palm over her abdomen, he held her firmly as he eased her further apart, clasping her lean leg in his grip. His ragged breath heated over her. She stilled, her touch softening to gentle caresses on his neck, relaxing her body under his sweet heaviness in loving faith.
Her willingness to trust him, even in his unconstrained desire, unleashed an unquenchable thirst in him, and like a man upon on oasis, he drank deeply from her sweetness, drowning in her love. Her hands clutched his shoulders as low cries of enrapture filled his ears. Knowing she was near her release, he rose over her, kissing his way to her sensual mouth as he readied to enter her.
“I want to be inside you, moja žena, my wife, to feel your pleasure around me,” he husked.
Cupping her face in his hands, he filled her with a feral groan. Her tightness encapsulated him, and he loved her with fierce tenderness until their cries and fluids mingled in the moment of oneness.
* * *
The days of their seclusion passed quickly, each discovering the other afresh since living under the same roof. As they lounged in their morning routine on the fifth day of the week, talking together in the early hour, Drago suggested an outing.
“Let's go out for the day. There are many shops to visit. I'll show you some of the city, and we can purchase some groceries.”
“Mm-mm..., that sounds like a good idea. I want to find a few gifts to send to my father. And we definitely need to buy a few groceries,” Grace thought aloud.
“We'll find a café for lunch. But now, I believe it is time for breakfast.”
And he dragged her across his chest, nipping playfully at her neck. Her dark eyes shone with laughter as she settled on him, silky tresses mussed around her smiling face.
“Always thinking of devouring your next meal, you are.”
“I have an insatiable appetite,” Drago countered, the double entendre not lost on his wife.
* * *
Stepping out into the crisp air and bright sunshine was altogether pleasing, and the couple walked briskly along the street. The sky glowed azure as only an autumn day could. Grace studied the homes and shops dotting each block, curious about the inhabitants within. Sandy hued walkways lined their way, old and well trodden, swept neat and clean, and before many of the abodes and businesses stood urns overflowing with evergreens or narrow benches to welcome weary pedestrians.
At each corner and intersection passed, they moved toward the shopping district, encountering greater traffic, leaving residential homes behind, those replaced with small cafés, bakeries, and boutiques. Eager to peer in windows and have Drago translate the names above the storefronts, Grace slackened their pace, and for the next few hours she wandered in and out of all that caught her interest, carefully inspecting the wares within. Drago proudly related little histories of various buildings and streets along the way, his love of this city and his country apparent.
The main thoroughfares had the feel of a modern metropolis, sleek glass windows and minimalistic exteriors, but upon the off-shooting side streets were simpler facades exuding old world charm. On one of these sat a little bistro called Ivkovic's. The sign jutted out perpendicular to the structure, suspended on a curled wrought iron frame, and teak tables for two lined the frontage. A sturdy, wooden-horse frame held rectangular chalk boards, announcing the specials in thickly drawn letters.
“Shall we stop for lunch?” Drago asked.
“Yes, I'm starving. And it smells delicious.”
Drago pulled a chair out for her to sit as he nodded to the waiter hovering near the doorway. Momentarily, he arrived with a carafe of water and tableware. Speaking the native language, the server announced the menu, and Drago ordered their mid-day meal.
A certain unease encroached on Grace's mind at the reminder of her complete dependence on her husband. She was a foreigner in a strange and confusing new culture. She had no fear of being in Drago's hands. Rather her fear stemmed from the thought of finding herself without him. No doubt she would be able to find an English speaking body should she need to, but her inability to communi
cate at will was a disadvantage she found unacceptable.
“Drago, I want to learn Slovakian. More than the phrases I've picked up – everything. Will you teach me?”
“Gladly. I had hoped you would want to learn. You'll pick it up quickly.”
“Good. I don't like feeling like a dunce.”
His deep laugh infected her, and she joined him in spite of herself.
“I can think of many words to describe you, Gracie, but a dunce is not one of them.”
Warm sunshine soaked through the heavy, rose cardigan and matching jersey Grace had paired with faded jeans that hung loosely over her hips and legs, long enough to cover the tops of her running shoes. She preferred comfort over high fashion, something learned growing up in a gym. A blue scarf looped her neck, and tiny, silver threads in its ends glinted in the sun beneath her long hair.
They feasted on roasted chicken and mushrooms tossed in a garlic, butter sauce, salad, and warm bread, planning the remainder of their afternoon. The table was cleared and the familiar black tea was served. Lingering around the table in lazy appreciation and watching the passersby, Grace noticed a tall woman with blond hair pulled tightly into a knot behind her head sporting tight, designer denim and high-heeled boots. Her ice-blue eyes, made more striking under the thick, black eyeliner, fastened on Drago, and recognition flashed across her angular face.
She halted her progress and without a glance at Grace gushed, “Drago, darling! Where have you been hiding yourself? We haven't seen you at all since we heard about your impressive victory in America. Anika and I have been watching for you everywhere.”
Grace understood nothing other than a-m-r-e-e-k-a as the blond kissed Drago's cheeks.
Drago firmly turned the woman toward his wife.
“Ranelle, this is my wife, Grace,” he spoke in English, moving around the table to help Grace to her feet and placed his army-green jacketed arm around her waist.
For a moment the blond stood, a stunned expression on her face. Recovering a thin smile, her eyes narrowed slightly as she raked her gaze over the the dark haired woman at Drago's side.
“Well, what a surprise.” The last word whined slightly from her throat. “Won't I be the bearer of bad news. You'll have broken many hearts with your happy nuptials. It was a small wedding, I assume.”
“Yes, it was. We wanted a family affair. I'm surprised Josip hadn't told you; he was there.” Drago turned to Grace and added, “Grace, Ranelle is Josip Igrec's sister.”
Grace had been introduced to Josip, a sparring partner for the amateur fighters that trained in Drago's gym, at their wedding.
“Well, I haven't talked to him in weeks! You know, I've been working on my fashion shoots. I had heard you were to marry, but I had no idea it was to be so soon. I had thought perhaps it was a rumor,” she laughed.
“It is very nice to meet you, Ranelle,” Grace said politely.
“Likewise,” was the curt reply. “I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm on my way to meet with friends.”
Donning expensive sunglasses she fished from her oversized handbag, Ranelle Igrec strutted away.
Grace had never been insecure or jealous, but she was affected. Ranelle could easily be a runway model with her height and stunning face. Grace may not know this woman at all, but she was certain that this was exactly the type of woman who would aggressively pursue her husband. Knowing the foolishness of comparing herself against others, she wanted to push the thoughts from her mind. But deep inside, she felt ill-equipped to compete against such luring beauty.
Grace was small with an athletic build, she was skilled in jujitsu, she was knowledgeable in the areas of training for a fight, she was sweet Gracie – who the fighters loved like a younger sister.
Until Drago.
She banished the ridiculous thoughts at remembering how Drago looked at her. Smiling again and more composed, she turned to him.
“Are you ready to continue my grand tour?”
“This way,” he gestured.
They wandered a few blocks, casually strolling as they looked around and turned onto a wider street, which was much busier. Long awnings of heavy, brown canvas reached out over the sidewalks, protecting the fresh fruits and vegetables heaped in crates upon folding tables of various sizes and heights. Faintly, the homey smell of baking bread filled the air.
“Tell me what you want, Grace,” he said, “and we will find it here.”
Grace looked at each vendor's stall before informing Drago of her wants, and he haggled over prices across the barriers of produce, always coming away with the items she requested. She laughed at the repetitive gesticulations the ruse of bargaining brought on at each stand, aware of the similar exchanges occurring all around them, all of which was infinitely more interesting than any grocery store shopping she had done in the States.
Having enough produce for the next few days, they entered a small bakery. A plump woman with a wide face and sturdy arms from years of kneading greeted them from behind the glass counter-top. They scanned the rounded loaves of hearty breads pointing out their choice, which sent the babushka topped head of the older woman bending to retrieve it. Wrapping the loaf in brown paper, she waited as they selected a few more items.
Their last stop was the butcher's shop, and here, Drago was greeted with familiarity.
“Zadrovec! Come in, come in,” a great bear of a man boomed.
His curly salt and peppered hair battled for freedom with the white cap tied around it. The two shook hands vigorously and exchanged a few words Grace knew to be her introduction when Drago looked at her, pulling her close to him as the thick, black haired arms of the meat-cutter grasped hers jovially.
“Congratulations to you both! Now what can I get for you today?”
His broken English was spoken with a kindness and affection that endeared him to Grace at once. Drago made a few purchases, and then the two talked as the meat was wrapped in the waxy butcher paper, the man eager for details of Drago's victory in his latest bout.
He addressed Grace proudly.
“I was once a fighter, too. As a young man I boxed. But as you can see, that was many years ago.”
He pointed to a few old black and white photos pinned to the white wall behind him.
“Impressive, sir!” Grace offered with a grin. “Surely it wasn't that long ago!”
His hearty laughter filled the store.
“I am afraid it was! But for your kindness, I'll throw in something special on the house.”
He winked at her and disappeared into the back room before returning and adding another package to her bundle.
Concluding the short visit, they gathered their purchases and departed for home.
Dusk was falling over the city as they walked toward home, and Drago and Grace welcomed the sight of their comfortable abode, both ready for an evening of relaxation before a crackling fire.
Grace curled on the sofa, steaming mug warming her hands, and Drago, satisfied that the fire would sustain itself, came alongside her. This weekend would be their final days hidden away from the world. The last of the calm before the storm.
Drago wanted to prepare Grace for the sudden changes that would besiege them in the coming months. He had defeated his opponent in his AMMAO debut, but that was but one step in the marathon that stretched before him. He would fight again in six months, this time against a more skilled adversary. Intensive training would consume his time and energy over the next twenty-four weeks, and the media barrage would steal what was left. Grace had seen the training side of this life, but Guy was a behind the scenes trainer; he was able to avoid much of the camera's spotlight. Drago had to make certain Grace was ready for the public attention they were likely to be subjected to. This perspective had come in the form of a warning from Guy himself in the days leading up to their marriage.
Guy Antolini was nothing if not a master strategist, and Drago trusted the man's keen instincts. The up and coming, explosive, Slovakian fighter marrying the daught
er of an American kickboxing legend whose expert training was in high demand – and came at a premium price – would be a double edged sword. It suggested dynasty building.
Guy was convinced that at first the couple would be hailed as the darlings of the AMMAO, provided Drago secured further victories, but he advised the young Slovak to be prepared for the darker side of the equation. His motives for pursuing Grace would be questioned. His every interaction would be scrutinized, as would his wife's. There would be constant speculation over whether the marriage was a solid union or a Machiavellian move orchestrated by Drago, or even Guy. Guy advised Drago to share all these concerns with Grace before they surfaced, knowing his daughter's ability to stand in the face of adversity, but unwilling to allow surprise to leave any fertile ground for the seeds of doubt to take root.
Drago broached the topic frankly and explained his concerns while Grace listened intently.
“I prefer to stay out of the public eye, Drago. Of course, photos will be taken when we are out together, but I see no reason for me to speak with any reporters. The last thing I want is to see my words in some twisted quote.”
“There may come a time when you are asked a direct question,” he noted.
“I suppose you're right,” she conceded. “I'll be brief and smile a lot. It'll be enough to satisfy curiosity, I imagine. As for the speculation and rumor that may surround our marriage, I don't plan to defend or deny any of it. Let them wonder. Our marriage is our concern, and business is business. I've no desire to read the reports and articles that may swirl about anyway.”
“Neither do I. As I told you the night before our wedding, Grace, it is your trust and confidence I need. As long as I have that, I can concentrate on my training.”
“Do that, then, without giving it another thought.”
The finality of her statement made plain, Drago added his last request.
“Promise me you will come to me if there is ever anything...,” he paused, touching her face. “I want nothing to stand between us.”
“I will, Drago,” she promised.
They sat together in shared contemplation, staring into the yellow-orange glow of the dancing firelight, content in the peace of one another's arms.
Claiming The Prize Page 13
