by Landra Graf
Chapter Seven
She avoided him well. Two days had passed since he’d kissed her, a mistake and blessing wrapped in one. Since then, his dreams had been erotic nightmares—his hands tracing the contours of her body, her breasts with dark nipples at the mercy of his tongue. Every morning, he awoke abruptly from his dreams, feeling as if some invisible entity, bent on preventing them from being together in the most intimate of ways, was shoving him away from her with some force.
On the third day, he searched the ship for her. Yet, every time he entered a room or deck, she’d left moments before to tend to another task, fix another problem. When he finally found her, she was sitting on a stool in the kitchen with a steaming glass of coffee in her hand, sharing a conversation in Italian with Bonita.
He didn’t hear much except the words amante and confidenza, “lover” and “confidence,” which hollowed his stomach and filled it with dread. He was treading new territory for a man who expected female betrayal. Most women he’d known were quick to abandon their men for a better deal or even momentary pleasure. His mother, his aunts, and many others had traded away their bodies, marriages, and so much more for personal gain. America was far from the land of the pure.
Sorella—in his mind, her name sounded like a prayer; a call to the angels above. Damn. He couldn’t bring himself to believe she’d turn out like the other women in his life. Her untutored lips and gasps of surprise when he had latched onto her clothed nipple told him otherwise.
To keep jealousy from flaying his precarious sanity, he needed to change the conversation. Immediately. “Ah, two lovely ladies in the kitchen. A sight to bring any man to his knees.”
Both ladies stopped talking and looked over at him. Bonita waved his statement away with her hand and went back to her rolling pin and the ball of dough on the opposite counter.
Sorella rose. “I have to get back to my cabin. I’m supposed to meet with Bastille shortly.”
Before she could escape again, Ian moved to stand in front of her, palms out. “Wait one minute.”
The glare she gave him had his cock rising to attention instead of withering away. “You’d be better off moving out of my way before I decide you don’t need ten fingers.”
He sighed. “Dirty words won’t scare me off. We need to talk.”
“About what?” A blush stole into her cheeks, a dead giveaway as to why she’d avoided him.
A tiny part of him wanted to bring up their stolen kisses in his cabin, but he thought better of it. The steaming cup of coffee and the multiple knives she always carried played a large part in his decision-making. “About Hamburg?”
“It’s a city. You’re meeting someone. She’ll tell us where The Cursed are, and then we leave. Pretty straightforward.”
If only things were half as simple. “No, I haven’t told you all the details.”
With a roll of her eyes and two steps backward, she positioned herself on the stool once more. “I’ll give you five minutes.”
Time to talk fast. “Eva Sonne is the premier singer for the British Embassy. She performs three nights a week at special embassy events held in an attempt to woo the kaiser into a trade deal with Britain, one that will give the British a little more room to maneuver in France and Denmark. If we’re going to pull this off, we’ll need to be dressed in something much nicer than everyday clothes.”
“You mean a formal dress for me and black and white for you?”
“That’s the ticket. It will be polite conversation, no weapons, and plenty of nods and curtseys all night. These events attract the German royalty and British aristocracy quite frequently.”
Sorella’s face paled.
“Will that be all right?”
She didn’t respond, but her grip loosened on her coffee mug.
Ian leaned in and nudged her with his shoulder. “Sor—Captain?”
His near use of her Christian name got Bonita’s attention, and she bustled over to them, speaking rapid fire Italian and gripping the captain by her shoulders.
After a moment, Sorella shrugged off the woman’s embrace, resituated her grip on the cup, and calmly replied, “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
She then turned back to him. “It will be good. What else?”
Something about the idea of high society being present upset her. Getting her to talk about it with him seemed a lost cause. Instead, he mentally rambled through the potential pitfalls. So far, she’d shown proficiency in dealing with high pressure situations and strange environments. With the exception of her killing the rapist, she’d performed perfectly at Janken’s club. He had only one thing left to ask. “When’s the last time you danced?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Ian laughed. “At a party like this, dancing is the easiest way to move across the room.”
“I’m afraid it’s been a while since I strapped on those shoes.”
“Then maybe we’d best practice before we arrive. If we want to avoid attention, we’ll need to fit in.”
She hesitated and took a long drink of her coffee. “Fine. Let’s do it.”
“Tonight?”
Sorella sighed. The cook nudged her again, which jarred her cup, spilling coffee over the side. “Tonight,” she said, rising from the stool. “We’re done here. I’ve got to meet Bastille and review inventory.”
Then, of course, she ran off again. He didn’t know the rules of this game, but his captain…he liked the sound of that…seemed on edge. It might make him a bastard, but he liked her demeanor when she was rattled, too.
***
First, the kiss. Then the opening of her vest. Now the dancing. The man seemed to hunt for the chinks in her armor. Sure, the practice he had proposed benefited both of them, but such lessons, next to weapons and martial arts, were some of her favorite ones. Dancing opened the soul, allowing her to become one with the motions of nature, the very air around a person. She still recalled those short waltzes with her brother as her partner. Bodyguard, friend, and family were three of his many titles. The memories were imprinted in her mind, a symbol of his dedication to her.
She’d played off her knowledge about ballrooms and the activities of royalty, pretending to have no experience with any of those thing; the biggest lie ever told since she’d been bred for this exact purpose. Only a short time remained before she needed to appear for practice, and she opened the drawer of her vanity, tucking the red glass rosary inside. No doubt God laughed at her or chose to punish her for her sin. All her piety and prayer were not enough to atone.
Bonita swarmed into the room, a force of nature, her former lady’s maid turned cook. When Sorella had chosen to run from her privileged life, her maid had insisted on going with her. One of the few privy to Sorella’s secrets and loyal to the core, the woman had been with her since childhood. Like a second mother, a managing one, Bonita stayed close..
“Ella-bella, you must sit and let me put up your hair.” She spoke Italian on the ship to keep their conversations private. Few people spoke the language, and Sorella worked hard to avoid adding nationals from her homeland to their crew.
She sat in the chair, and the old woman came up behind her, brush in hand.
“We’ll have to wash this mess, first thing, if you plan on going to the embassy tomorrow,” Bonita clucked, unraveling the two long braids and brushing the waist-length hair out slowly.
“You’re enjoying this.”
The cook laughed. “Yes, I am. Who else is?”
“Ian and God.”
“Watch your language. Taking the Lord’s name in vain is the path to hell.” The words were coupled with a brief smack to her arm. “Speaking of handsome devils, you told him your name?”
Sorella pretended to be deaf until the brush tugged her hair a little too hard, the start of a new, single braid. “Yes, I did. By accident.”
“Is this the same accident that earned you a first kiss and a studious session with your ro
sary and bible?”
After the debacle two nights ago, she’d had to talk to someone. Since Bastille topped the ‘out of the question’ list, the only option stood behind her, yanking, folding, and twisting her hair to form a chain at the top of her head. Her nanny wanted her to take a lover, to cast aside the standards she’d held for so long.
“Yes, the incident is the root of everything.” Including lingering sexual thoughts, which had caused her to touch herself the night before in longing, She had moaned in agony as release escaped her, another act of sin she’d paid penance for today.
“I still say if you want to make sure you’re never forced to marry the horrible president’s son, then you must remove all vestiges of their required purity. Take Ian as a lover. His compliments are nice enough, and he looks at you like he wants to eat you.” This last sentence came out with a giggle.
“It’s wrong to fornicate before marriage.” A pin poked her scalp, sharp enough to hurt, but she’d trained long and hard to avoid outbursts from small pains.
“Am I a sinful woman because I chose to allow men to worship this body when they respected and worshipped me?” The words were harsh and scolding.
“No, Nana.”
“Esattamente! God wants us to be loved spiritually and physically. With the life you lead, waiting for marriage is too risky. Better to take a chance for a few moments of happiness now, especially when it’s offered by a man that good looking.”
Embarrassing, the whole thing. She still blushed at how she’d been so forward, allowing him access to more than her lips and nearly telling him to take her body, to claim it. If anyone had seen…. Saints be praised, no one had. So difficult to shed years of ingrained propriety.
“All done. Look in the mirror.”
Sorella looked up, one solitary braid wrapped at the back of her head. “It looks very efficient. My hair won’t fall in a fight.”
The comment earned her a slap on the shoulder.
“No, this is just for tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll make the braid shorter. After I wrap it up, I’ll fold the longer pieces of hair underneath and pin it down to cover the braid. A unique hairstyle to hide the length.”
She turned to the right then the left, imagining how the final design would look. “Sounds perfect.”
Bonita shook her head. “You don’t even care as usual. No matter. Let’s get you in the dress.”
Launching out of her chair, Sorella turned and waved her hands. “No. Absolutely not. I’ll wear a dress tomorrow. Not a moment before.”
The woman ignored her and strode to the small closet on the far wall. Fleeing Italy, they’d packed serviceable clothes for her new life, but her maid had smuggled two fancy dresses out, in case of an emergency, she’d claimed. The Hamburg situation counted as an emergency, but why bring on the agony of remembering her old life any sooner?
“You have to practice in the dress and the shoes,” her maid replied, turning around with a shimmery, cream silk confection of a dress, boasting a top with shoulder straps, a diamond patterned bodice, and a skirt capable of whispering over the floor with barely-there touches.
The shoes were cream colored as well with a small heel. No doubt she’d regret this, but Bonita looked so happy. It’d been a long time since the woman had had anything to celebrate besides successful smuggling operations and illegal activities concluded without detection.
“No sense arguing with you. Get the damn thing over here. I’m supposed to be up on deck in fifteen minutes.
“Ella-Bella, you’ll be so gorgeous he won’t be able to resist you.”
The debutante living within her brightened at the prospect, even though trained assassins were only supposed to engage assigned marks. In this case, she was breaking all the rules.
Chapter Eight
Ian mingled on the top deck, waiting for his dance partner to appear. Dinner in the galley had been filled with conversation about music and entertainment. According to the engine techs, such things were scarce.
The full moon shone brightly, and Bastille’s team kept the lighting to a minimum. Air warm, breeze light, the mood was set.
That’s when she appeared. The light sounds of voices halted, and he turned to glimpse an angel. Her dress shimmered in the light with each step; his merchant eyes recognized silk by the way the moonlight reflected off the folds and bends of the fabric.
Her hair was pulled back, exposing her face and neck…a neck he remembered fondly. No sense thinking about things he couldn’t act on.
His mother’s lessons reared their ugly head. A gentleman never let his partner stand on the dance floor alone, so he strode toward her. Seven steps to get there, and he smiled. “You look gorgeous.”
“Let’s get this over with,” she growled, extending her arms up as if waiting for him to connect with her.
“That’s no way to avoid being noticed.”
“Why would anyone notice us?”
He moved in then, and she gasped in surprise as he wrapped his right arm around her waist, clasping her right hand in his left. “Do you wear glasses? Your crew hasn’t spoken a single word since you came through the door. They’re mesmerized. The same thing will happen at the party, and if you want to scare them away, death stares won’t work.”
Ian stretched out his hand, loving how he fit perfectly against her as the heat emanating from her body warmed his fingers. He inhaled and could smell her gardenia soap, fresh and strong. She’d cleaned up for this, and he hadn’t bothered to dress up. Not that he could; he’d joined the ship with only the clothes on his back. His lack of proper attire rankled less than the idea that he probably carried a quarter inch of dirt and sweat on his skin.
No sense in wallowing. Back to business then. “The best way to combat the interest from the crowd is to be infatuated with your partner. The British and Germans are known for their marriages of convenience. If you play the role of besotted female, they’ll never pay you a second glance.”
Then he nodded at Bastille. The gramophone crackled as the record began to turn, and the sounds of the Blue Danube Waltz filled the air. “Do you know the waltz?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Until that moment, she’d been like a doll, silent and stiff in his arms. With those words her body relaxed, a different version of her coming to life.
“I’ll lead.” As he whisked her into the first turn, she glared at him. Drilled into him years ago, the steps played in his head. One, two, three, back and forth movements. She never trod on his toes like so many Southern belles had in the past. She didn’t fight for control and gracefully flowed to the music, her skirt swishing along.
“Ready to move across the room?” he asked, eyebrow raised in challenge.
“I won’t break if we do.”
So move her, he did, in small, tight circles, then wide ones. Five minutes of twirling across the deck, passing Bastille, who waited for Ian’s nod. Once he gave it, other couples joined them. Men with men, females with men. Enough to crowd the deck and give Sorella a sense of what a real ballroom would be like.
She tensed initially as their free space tightened. “How long is this song?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Are all the songs this long?”
He laughed. “Not all of them. Are you already tired?”
“No, but these shoes will probably leave blisters on my feet. Curse Bonita and her need to play dress up.”
More turns, more people whirling by them. He navigated them toward the center of the group and kept them there. He’d overlooked her increased height; only a few inches, but enough to raise the top of her head to the level of his nose. “Probably wise since you’ll have to wear heeled shoes tomorrow night. Should we stop so I can check your feet?”
“No!” Then she attempted to take control and push them back into the circling group. “I can handle this. It’s a pair of slippers, not a knife wound.”
“You’re trying to lead.”
She g
ave him a predatory smile. “When a man won’t complete the job, the only option is for a woman to take over.”
“I like a female who knows how to take charge, but sometimes I think there’s a point where it’s good to yield.”
The song stopped. Everyone clapped.
“Thanks for the practice.” Sorella released her hold on him, but he didn’t let go.
“One more dance.”
“One more? What’s the name of it?” She put her hand back on his shoulder and wrapped her fingers around his left one, fitting their palms together.
He nodded to the first mate. “It’s a new dance. Not huge, but gaining momentum every day.”
Another crackle as the record hummed to life, and then Fred Astaire’s voice burst into song. “ I’m in heaven.”
Pulling Sorella closer, he let go of her hand and slid his own along her arm where he gripped the muscle right below her shoulder. Then he whispered in her ear. “This particular song requires you to get a lot closer.”
They swayed back and forth as he fitted his cheek against hers. Her breath tickled the shell of his ear as she replied, “They permit this type of closeness?”
“In Europe, yes.”
Her skin was soft to the touch, and her gardenia scent invaded his nostrils, ten times stronger than before. Sniffing her hair came as natural to him as moving his feet to sway with the music. The pulse point at the juncture of her chin and neck beat rapidly. His cock began to harden. Then her breasts came flush against him as they spun out of turn. Too much, too fast, and he nearly lost his footing. Next a dip, then a twirl away from him. The distance and fresh air cooled his heated flesh. Damn.
