Hostage Heart

by Renee Roszel

  Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, not daring to open them and have her phantom lover melt into vacant darkness, she lay, mesmerized by the magic of his ghostly touch, caring only for the perfection of his caresses as his body molded itself with her own, like two parts of a puzzle, long separated, finally joined to complete the desired image.

  As he moved her through the ancient rhythms in love’s dance, Drew floated along, enthralled, matching kiss for kiss, touch for touch as she explored the stirring hardness of his body, delighting in the supple tautness of his muscles and the completely male roughness of his strong jaw as his mouth seared along her shoulder.

  He was an artist at his craft, a virtuoso, with full knowledge of the instrument she was, as he gently stroked, played her, leaving her nerves humming in a rush of melody as his hands moved along, bringing every fiber of her being alive with rich harmonious sensations.

  His hands touched her everywhere at once. . .or at least, it seemed so. Yet if they did not, her skin could not bear witness, for it sizzled delightedly, making past and present contact melt together in a thunderous orchestration moving her quickly to forte, and her heart hammered out the percussion in throbbing palpitations beneath his eloquent, sensual direction.

  This gentle, yet firm command he had over her body was intriguingly different from any other touch she had ever known; and it set her aflame with wanting, needing him, that mounted, at last to a crashing crescendo. Pulling him to her, she cried out fervently, “Please. . .oh, please. . .love me!”

  He then guided her through a universe of unearthly emotions, and the dream became so passionate, so palpable and real within the cloudy champagne-washed darkness, thrilling her beyond reason, she found herself doubting her own sanity. And at the zenith of their joining, she cried out tearfully as her body shuddered beneath his in victorious surrender.

  In the pleasurable stillness that followed, she felt at peace, aglow with love’s embers as she lay entwined in the arms of her shadow love. . . miraculously content for the first time in so long. . . .She slept on, happy with the dream, for it was all that she had.

  SHE stirred, snuggling in the cocoon warmth of the bed, blinking her eyes open. Bright light flooded in the glass door which opened out onto a narrow balcony, and she winced at the small pain it precipitated behind her eyes.

  Turning to her back, she squinted down at her wrist. It was quite late—after 10:00 A.M. The conference breakfast meeting was long over, and she worried that her father would be wondering why she had not been in attendance.

  Sitting up quickly, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then stopped short.

  A gasp escaped her throat as she looked down at herself. She had nothing on! Confusion sent a needle of apprehension painfully through her mind as she looked slowly about the large room. The bed she perched on was long and wide within massive, beautifully carved head and footboards. Along the opposite wall sat two German closets, or Schrankes, large, double-doored chests used for hanging clothes. These too were richly adorned with carvings—clusters of grapes, cherubs, mountains and various other symbols that Drew did not recognize. But they were lovely.

  Sitting between them stood a matching dresser, over which hung an antique beveled mirror.

  She saw herself framed in the glass, wide-eyed, still as an alabaster statue and almost as pale, but for the fiery highlights of her hair, glowing a gold-red in the broad shaft of morning sunlight that fell on her there, singling her out in the lovely room like a spotlight illuminating the most important element in the opening scene of a play.

  Just then, the sound of booted feet bounding up the stairs pulled Drew from her shocked paralysis. Hurriedly she pulled the sheet up before her bare breasts as the bedroom door swung wide.

  A smiling Rolf entered briskly, moving toward the bed. Dumbfounded by his unannounced entry, Drew instinctively backed away, until she was halted both by the bed’s sturdy headboard and by the fact that the sheet she clutched, tucked securely at the bottom of the bed would move no further.

  “Good morning, wife.” He stopped below the bed’s footboard and hooked a thumb in his belt, then just stood, smiling for a moment as his eyes moved slowly over her. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a husky tone. “I hated to leave you so early, but I had business in town that couldn’t wait.”

  Drew’s open mouth was prickly dry. “Leave. . . me?” It was a hushed question. She swallowed, afraid to ask any questions that might lead him to explain his remark. Why? Never in her life had she felt so helpless. He obviously knew something that she didn’t. Something, it seemed, which was very significant. How else could she explain his familiarity. . . entering her room. . . or. . . any room she was sleeping naked in as though he owned it!

  Her fearful turn of mind was interrupted as he circled the end of the bed, still smiling. He sat down on the bed near her covered feet, pulling a newspaper from his hip pocket. Unfolding it, he laid it in her lap, tapping the image that faced her. It was a picture taken last night after the dinner. She saw herself smiling up at Rolf as he faced an unidentified reporter.

  “You see, my love. Now the world knows our secret.” She shot her eyes back up at his face, amazed at his casual intimacy; his unconcerned use of her room and her bed. She bit her abused lip and winced.

  No. This wasn’t her room, she recalled again, and icy dread of the unknown moved along her spine, stiffening her back.

  Unable to withstand his intent gaze, she lowered her eyes to the paper. The image before her faded as her mind took her inward, and she was suddenly very unconcerned about the fact that she was, once again, front page news. Right now, she had deeper concerns, problems. . .questions that needed answers, no matter how painful. . .questions, it appeared, that only Rolf could answer.

  She let the words come, but half-heartedly and in a small, almost little girl voice. “Rolf? Did. . .did anything”—she cleared her swollen throat, and toyed nervously with the sheet she held tightly to her chest—“unusual. . .happen last night?”

  He cocked his head, his broad smile diminishing slightly. “Unusual?”

  She could only nod.

  His brows knit, and he eyed her closely for a moment before asking, “Don’t you remember?”

  She tried to focus on the newspaper resting in her lap as she whispered, “Not. . .not clearly.” She knew she could have said not at all after a vague recollection of being bundled into a cab—or was that just part of her dream, too? She hesitated.

  He shook his head, chuckling. “I think I am offended. But, to answer your question, no, I can’t say anything unusual happened.”

  Hugging the sheet close about her, she relaxed slightly, expelling a long breath as she let herself slide slowly down, until her elbows, and a pillow at her back halted her. She just lay quietly for a moment, puzzled gray eyes meeting steady brown. Her mind tried to pick up loose ends, fragmented mental pictures of the night before. . . but all she could recall was a night of wonderful imaginings.

  Regaining some of her confidence, she lifted her chin and spoke, trying for sternness, however belatedly.

  “Then—then you have your nerve, coming in here!” She moved her eyes about the room. “Are we still in the Alois Lang? Why didn’t you take me back to the chalet?”

  A slow, easy smile replaced his thoughtful look, and he surprised Drew by moving his hand to her ankle, resting it warmly on the sheet, his fingers gently massaging her leg. “This is the chalet, Drew. It’s my room.” He paused. “Try to remember.”

  With the electric contact of his hand, coupled with the soft order, her jaw dropped as overwhelming disbelief numbed her brain.

  “No!” She pulled her leg away from his charged touch, jumping to her knees. “It wasn’t. . .it couldn’t have been. . . not you!”

  Yanking hard on the sheet, she managed to pull it free from its confining hold and scrambling farther from him, she cried breathlessly, “It just couldn’t have been you!”

  An uncharacteristic flicker
of surprise danced across his eyes. “No?” His smile was crooked. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  In heated but graceful fluidity, Drew swept the sheet and herself off the opposite side of the bed, retorting hotly, “That remark is not worthy of an answer. Just what kind of a woman do you take me for?”

  His eyes held a meaningful golden glint as he said, “Actually, Drew”—white teeth flashed in a quick grin—“you are a most appealing kind.”

  She avoided his knowing eyes. “This is all a terrible mistake! I—I thought you were all a—a dream. . .” she let out helplessly. It sounded so ridiculous now, after the fact. For if dreams were really capable of that degree of fulfillment, man would have died out aeons ago—most probably, peacefully, in his sleep!

  He stood and thoughtfully rubbed a fisted knuckle along his square jaw. “Well, I’ve been called many things in my time, but never a dream.” He nodded his head, amusement lightening his words. “I believe I like it.”

  Drew sputtered at his contrary lack of repentance, “You told me you wouldn’t take advantage of me!”

  His look held a disturbing candor. “And I won’t.”

  “You won’t!” she fumed, her body going taut in her fury. “But—but—you did! Last night you—you knew I wasn’t myself!”

  His eyes seemed to brand her with his ownership as he answered, “No, mein stürmisches Fräulein, my stormy woman. I would say last night you were very much yourself.”

  She sobered instantly, eyes growing huge at his unexpectedly gentle remark. She moved her lips to retort, but no sound came. For some ridiculous reason she felt as though he had extended her a great compliment, and with it thrust right in the midst of her mental turmoil and righteous indignation, she didn’t know how to react.

  Suddenly he was rounding the bed, coming nearer. With his approach, uncertainty sharpened her words as she fleetingly scanned the neat room once again. “Where are my clothes? I want my clothes!”

  “They are in your Schranke.”

  “In the other room?” She was positive now of how all of this must have happened. “So, you came into my room when I was helpless and asleep, and carried me in here!” She tossed her fiery head, confident of the accuracy of her accusation. “Can’t you get a woman to come to you without sneaking up on her while she lies in oblivious sleep?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly, but he ignored her gibe. “I put your clothes away this morning.” The remark was matter-of-fact. “You were in too much of a hurry last night to be concerned about them.”

  “I?” Her voice rose an octave and was slightly thready. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  His eyes, far too penetrating for her peace of mind, passed over her thinly clad form as he moved to face her. “You seduced me, you know.” He reached out, lazy fingers tracing along her cheek. “I will admit, I was quite surprised.” His face changed as a seductive smile softened the angular planes.

  Moving long fingers to her chin, he tilted her face up to his, grazing her lips with his own as he concluded, “Surprised, but very pleased.”

  His mouth consumed hers, his possessive lips held an urgent fiery demand that caused Drew’s legs to grow weak.

  A supportive hand slid to her back, pressing her to his long, hard frame. The move told her with graphic accuracy that he was a man aroused.

  The scorching kiss, the ardor of his bold touch on the bare skin of her back was quickly drawing all resistance from her. In his arms, the memory of the night just past blazed to life in her mind. This man was a lusty, potent lover, inflaming her to white-hot passions instantly, like a fragile match easily struck to flame against the proper friction.

  In his arms, she burned, and was consumed by him, totally. There was no substance left of her to call her own. And after burning like a torch in his hands, she knew she could be nothing more than shapeless, lifeless ashes in any other embrace.

  He held her gently now; his kisses were not urgent as he tasted, savored her mouth with his tongue. She became aware that the sheet at her back had parted, and Rolf’s knowing hands were massaging her spine, easing the tenseness from her body. Her legs trembled in their continued effort to support her. In another moment she would be lifted into his arms, totally lost in her desire for him. He could do with her as he pleased, as he had done with her before. . .when he had taken her off her guard. But this time it was different. This time she was awake and sober. And even now she was losing herself to his seductive touch. . .and in just another moment she would be his completely of her own free will. But. . . would he be hers? What was she to him? The question was easily answered, chilling her soul.

  She was his friend. Obviously his definition of friend was a bit broader than her own. She had thought he didn’t want her in this way. But she had been wrong. He wanted her. . . as he had no doubt wanted many women before and would want many others after. Women to him were a convenience. And so was she, a two-week fluffy diversion. What he didn’t want of her was permanence!

  “No!” she sobbed wretchedly, her mind forcing her to pull away from the magnetic spell he exerted on her body. She pushed against him with a strength born of desperation, for she knew if she gave in now, she could never hold herself away from him again. And he would only drive his memory deeper into her before he finally walked away. She could not weaken now and allow him this chance to inflict more profound pain on an already badly trampled heart.

  “I’m not going to make it that easy for you! I—I won’t. . .” she choked. “Let me go! Haven’t you done enough to me already?”

  She stumbled away.

  Not expecting her sudden protest, Rolf released her easily. “Drew? What’s wrong?” He sounded strangely stricken.

  Through tears, she sobbed, “Wrong? We’re wrong. . . you’re wrong! This whole thing is wrong! I—I won’t believe you about last night! You interpreted my condition the way you wanted to. I’m not used to drinking, that’s all.”

  He reached toward her, his expression perplexed. “Listen to me, Drew—”

  “No!” She avoided the contact. “I was terribly wrong in thinking you would protect me from Jim! You are no better than he is!”

  He straightened, speaking slowly and distinctly, but there was no harshness in his voice: “Do you equate being made love to with a beating?”

  Her stomach constricted with uncertainty, but there was no backing down now. She had to fight back, to put a chasm between them that could not be bridged. She had to make him want to keep his distance, to hate her if necessary.

  It was cruel, and it was a lie, but she blurted, “Maybe. . .yes! In some ways I do! At least I didn’t invite the handling I received in either case!”

  “Handling.” He repeated her word in a low breath. And she noted with some anguish that a muscle had begun a frantic kicking in his taut jaw as he stepped unevenly away, looking as though he had been physically struck. His face darkened beneath the already tan skin as he replied evenly, “Then I will make you a promise, Drew.” His deep voice had gone flat. “I will not handle you again. However”—his dark eyes flicked quickly over her and then back up; Drew inhaled sharply to see how hard they had become as he finished—“I have no doubts about my interpretation of last night. And I do not regret what we shared.” His lips twisted. “At least, I have the memory of the woman you were. . .in this bed. A person I much prefer to the quailing little girl I see now.”

  Thunderstruck by his ungracious comparison, she retorted sharply, “I don’t have to stay here and listen to this!”

  Whirling toward the door, she brushed quickly past him, feeling for the briefest instant the strength of his body against hers.

  Grasping the door knob, she pulled. It stuck, and for a frustrating moment she struggled angrily to open it, handicapped in no small way by the fact that she could not use both hands while one preserved her modesty by clutching the sheet about her.

  Embarrassed at her inability to make a sweeping, disdainful exit, she shot a glance over her should
er, eyeing Rolf grimly. He stood motionless, his legs spread. One dark brow went up as he quietly observed her struggles. Shrugging his hands into his jeans pockets, he made it clear that he did not intend to help her. He was no longer on her side, and oddly, this knowledge hurt her much more than anything that had gone before.

  Letting out a low moan of dismay, she dropped the sheet. It fell quickly to the floor, and Drew transferred some of her anger to it, damning it silently, somehow feeling that it, like the door, had taken Rolf’s side, conspiring against her.

  Finally, the stubborn portal creaked loudly, protesting its opening, and she dashed out in a flash of rosy skin. The rapid padding of her bare feet was the only sound that broke the stillness. And she knew in her aching heart, that Rolf had not moved.

  Chapter Ten

  The sun shone warmly down on the noontime bustle of Oberammergau. Comfortable in her brown tweed wrap jacket and cocoa flannel pants, Drew ambled along gazing in shop windows, wishing her spirits were as bright as the warm sunshine.

  But they weren’t. She raised her eyes to scan the painted building before her. It was a woodcarving shop. The second story held a painting of Christ being lifted on the cross by a people costumed in the style of the sixteen hundreds.

  Drew knew, from an explanation by Dr. Hartmut, that this was the pictorial story of the promise made by the small German town in 1632, when a plague that had been sweeping across the country miraculously stopped short of Oberammergau.

  The people of the village vowed because of the miracle, to give a presentation of the Passion of Christ every ten years, the first of which took place in 1634.

  For over three hundred years they had kept their promise. The Passion Play, after brief interruptions during times of war, evolved to its present-day schedule of being presented on the first year of every new decade. The next celebration of the Resurrection of Christ would be in 1990.