“I never go anywhere without a simple magnifying glass in my purse, not even when I’m carrying an evening bag like tonight. To me, it’s as necessary as my driver’s license. But to get really scientific, you’d need a building full of equipment.”
“We heard about radiocarbon dating. Will you need that to really tell how old it is?” Tamara asked.
“It’s only used for things like fossils that were once organic—bone, wood, charcoal, that sort of thing. There are other methods for stone, precious metals, ceramics, and other nonorganic materials.”
Their suite—the presidential, on the twenty-fourth floor, one floor down from Nevsky’s royal suite—was another starter palace with bedrooms upstairs. It had a dining area and kitchen, bar, study area with library … I had to wonder whether there were slave quarters, too.
Tamara excused herself as soon as we stepped inside and went upstairs to the bedroom area.
“Some champagne first before I put you to work,” Pavel said.
He took a bottle out of a bucket and removed the cork in a way I hadn’t seen done before. He opened it without the loud pop and surge of bubbly I get opening champagne.
He grinned. “A trick I learned. Instead of jerking out the cork abruptly, you hold the cork and twist the bottle while tilting it. Instead of a pop, you get a whispering sound called le soupir amoureux.”
“A loving whisper,” I said, translating the French phrase.
As he filled our glasses he said, “I usually don’t drink the stuff myself, but it seems to flow like water here in Dubai. Perhaps it’s better to drink than the water, don’t you think? Don’t they have to manufacture their water from the sea?”
“I don’t know, but it sounds logical.” I told him about the downtown ski run and a nightclub as cold as an igloo. “I’m sure making water for a large city is a no-brainer to people who can make snow in the desert.”
As he poured our drinks, I looked him over. This guy was a stud. Big and hard-bodied. Rock-jawed and clean-cut. A world-class athlete. I just had to imagine that made him world-class in all departments.
At twenty, he was nearly half my age. Sex with him would be robbing the cradle, which was okay with me. If I had a gun and a mask, I’d already be on top of him. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to brush aside a fee.
I smothered a giggle. I could always take it out in trade …
“You seem to be silently laughing at a private joke,” he said, smiling.
“Sorry. Something funny occurred to me.”
I don’t know where thoughts like that came from. It had to be the way I was raised.
My social calendar had pretty much been nonexistent the last several months. I was more focused on getting my life back in order, so I didn’t care about dating even though sometimes I wished a handsome knight would find me and sweep me away to a tropical paradise where we would live happily ever after.
I knew men looked at me. I wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but I had curves in the right places thanks to good genes and keeping my body in shape. I certainly didn’t flaunt it like some women. Something about my body language appealed to men. Not cold and unapproachable, but warm and inviting.
I stared at Pavel in a daze and started to have a mental fantasy of him suddenly taking me in his arms and making passionate love—
“Madison … Madison?”
“Huh. Oh, sorry, what did you say?”
“I said, let’s sit down and get more comfortable, shall we?”
I cleared my throat. “Sure.” Maybe my fantasy would actually turn into reality.
We went over to the windows and sat on an elegant upholstered sofa. Any romantic inclinations disappeared when he started asking me how I got interested in antiquities and about my professional qualifications. He either hadn’t been told about my nosedive from grace with the world of art by Karina or he was polite enough not to inquire. I’m sure it was the latter, since Karina was vindictive enough to get her claws into another woman when the victim’s back was turned.
“Let me show you what I bought,” he finally said.
He got up and led me to a table where a cloth was draped over an object. When he removed the cloth, I had several surprises. The first was that there were two pieces, not one.
He grinned. “Tamara also bought an artifact, but she didn’t want Karina to know she might have also done something foolish. The wine jar is mine. Isn’t it magnificent?”
“Yes, very. It’s a lovely piece.”
A small jar, about eight inches tall and about half that wide, narrower on the bottom and top, it was limestone with two small lions on top near the spout, two larger water buffalo on the front, with a lion attacking the oxen.
“Is it Mesopotamian? Babylonian?” he asked.
“Definitely Mesopotamian. Probably Babylonian.”
“Then I didn’t get cheated?”
“As long as you paid less than a thousand dollars for it, you didn’t get cheated.”
His face fell. “How could an antiquity thousands of years old sell for so little?”
“It’s an imitation.”
“Nyet! You tear my heart out!”
“How much did it tear out of your wallet?”
He winced and said, “Twenty-five thousand U.S. dollars.”
“Whew. Thank God. I thought you were going to say a million. If it was real, it would be worth many millions.”
“How do you know just by glancing at it that it’s not real?”
“How do you know which direction another player will hit a return ball before he even swings? Like tennis and poker, people in my profession use tells and instincts. But before I impress you with my expertise, let’s start with the fact that the original was looted from the Iraqi National Museum in Baghdad during the U.S. invasion in 2003. That’s where the dealer told you it came from, didn’t he?”
His guilty smile told it all. He picked up the wine jar and turned it over in his hands.
“All right. It’s a piece known to be stolen. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a real artifact. What precisely told you that it was a fake?”
I took the jar from him. “The cover and texture of the coating on the limestone is wrong. The patina, that’s the coating it’s supposed to have gotten from several thousand years of exposure to the elements, gives the impression that the piece was evenly aged all over. It would be extremely rare for that to happen.”
“Have you seen the original?”
“Yes, years ago when I made a trip to Baghdad as a student. And I’ve seen pictures of it many times. It’s on many lists that itemize pieces looted from the museum. Thousands of artifacts were stolen. Unfortunately, many of them hadn’t been properly cataloged by the museum before the looting, so they’re hard to trace today. This piece was cataloged.”
“Do you think the dealer who sold it to me was the one who stole it from the museum?”
I shook my head. “I doubt it. The thief would have made so much money selling it to an unscrupulous collector, he wouldn’t need to make fakes. The piece is really quite exceptional. World-class, you might say. There are pictures of it available all over the Internet, which is probably why it was chosen to be duplicated.”
I didn’t say anything, but I imagined that the dealer probably showed Pavel pictures and news stories about the stolen pieces to convince him he was buying a real antiquity.
I put the wine jar down and gave him a gentle squeeze of his arm. The arm was rock-hard.
“Don’t feel bad, you’re not the first person who’s been cheated. It’s a rather good fake.”
“I only feel bad for my money.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. I’m certain your only motive in buying what you thought was an antiquity stolen during the tragic looting of the Baghdad Museum was to make sure it got back to the museum by ransoming it. Right?”
“Of course, of course, that was exactly what I had in mind. To rescue it and return it to the people of Iraq.”
�
�Such a sweet thought. I knew you would want to do the right thing.”
I could imagine his PR person sending out e-mails tomorrow to news agencies proclaiming how the tennis player had lost money trying to rescue one of the missing pieces from the Baghdad Museum.
“What about my sister’s piece? A fake, too? Isn’t it another magnificent artifact? So strange … like an alien from Mars.”
Indeed it did look like an extraterrestrial—although a gingerbread man variety. A nude clay figurine—all the features were unisexual except for the penis sticking out—it had the head and general shape of the prototype “aliens” that have been featured on TV and in movies for decades. It had such an alien look to it, I would be surprised if a picture of it wasn’t in one of those books that claimed astronauts visited the earth in ancient times.
“I’m afraid it came out of the same fraud factory,” I said. “You’re right. It’s nicely done. The original is baked clay, about six thousand years old. Also missing after the Baghdad Museum was looted. Also irreplaceable and worth millions.”
“Ah … my poor sister will also be sad that she wasn’t able to return the artifact to its rightful owner.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news.”
He shrugged. “As in tennis, you must learn to lose once in a while to sharpen your game. Next time I buy an artifact, I will have an expert at my side. Please, have more champagne.”
I had more champagne as we small-talked and the soft, romantic strains of the soulful Russian song “Dark Eyes” played.
My knowledge of tennis was limited to TV commercials featuring tennis players and the latest romances reported in People magazine. But I knew Russians had become a powerful force in the sport despite not having a long tradition of playing the game.
“Why are there so many Russian champions?” I asked.
“Desperation by parents to give their children a better life. If you are well coordinated physically, you start very early. My sister and I started when we were four.”
Wow … four years old and being launched on a career. I wondered what that did to the heads of the kids. Personally, I wouldn’t want the joys of childhood displaced to make me a champion in a sport—especially since the odds are so slim, because there aren’t that many champions.
“How many people who start out at such a young age become champions?”
“Only a few,” he said. “Many fail, and worst of all, many stay in tennis purgatory where they fall just short of being good enough to play professionally. Some become teachers, but they always dream the impossible dream.”
“Don’t we all?”
I suddenly felt a little sad and melancholy. Maybe it was the champagne, more likely it was the song:
Dark eyes, burning eyes
Frightful and beautiful eyes
I love you so, I fear you so …
He leaned toward me and his lips brushed my cheek, then my lips.
“Have you ever taken a bath in champagne?” he whispered.
This time I couldn’t hold it back.
I giggled like a schoolgirl …
18
It must be my inability to handle champagne that got me into this situation. How else could I justify getting naked into a spa with a man I had known less than an hour?
That thought jumped into my head as I went up the stairs with Pavel.
“I do love soaking in tubs,” I said.
He brushed my ear with his lips. “Me, too.”
My comment sounded a little lame to my own ears. Here I was, a dignified, highly educated, professional woman of the world … and I was on my way to a naked experience with a man almost half my age.
“Cradle robber” popped in my mind again.
“Pure joy” was also accurate.
I try to be honest with myself. As much as I can, anyway. I really did love soaking in a warm tub. Sharing the experience with an attractive young man—a studly athlete, at that—would make it even better.
I didn’t want to think of it as being horny for him. It’s true my juices were flowing—I hadn’t been with a man for months—but I didn’t like that word: horny. It had a harsh, ugly grate to it. Completely unromantic. Rhinos have horny noses. I’ve heard women use it and they shouldn’t—it’s strictly a male word, locker-room vocabulary at that.
We reached the top of the steps.
“I get giddy and impulsive when I drink champagne,” I said.
“Me, too.” He smiled.
God, the alibi again sounded hollow and tinny to my own ear. I don’t know where these puritan thoughts come from whenever I find myself in a situation where I can really enjoy myself if I just let go. But damn it, I didn’t have to make excuses. I was human. Not just human, a woman. Sex was a much more meaningful experience for me than it was for a man. As sex studies have proved, women are interested in a soul-satisfying emotional experience, not just having some young stud’s throbbing dick inside them.
We entered into a very large and elegant bedroom.
“This is my room. Tamara’s is at the other end.”
The room was twice the size of mine. And I immediately noticed one thing that my room also had: a big mirror over the bed.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” he said, after he saw me looking at it.
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“I like it. Tamara and I flipped coins to see who would get the master bedroom. I won.”
“Lucky for you.” I wondered why they didn’t have separate suites. They could certainly afford it.
He took me in his arms and kissed me. I returned his kiss, then melted against him, my head on his shoulder. After all I had been through for the last few days, I felt like a battered woman finally in the arms of someone who was gentle and cared.
“Why me?” I asked.
My insecurities had surfaced.
“Better-looking women were at the party,” I said.
He shook his head. “You’re right. I have my choice of women. Not because of who I am, but what I am. But as for your question”—he kissed me—“you were the most sensuous woman in the room.”
“There were younger, prettier—”
“You are a woman who not only wants to be loved … you will love in return.”
“How do you know that?”
“You have an inner warmth about you that radiates outward. An eagerness for life and love, but you are looking for someone like yourself, who gives as much as you do.”
I liked this guy.
I returned his kiss, my tongue caressing his, my breasts pressed up against his powerful chest.
He unzipped me and the very expensive cocktail dress slipped to my feet. My bra, too, tossed to the side. My panties went somewhere. His clothes went flying as we moved toward the bathroom.
There wasn’t an ounce of excess fat on his firm, rock-hard body.
I put my hands behind his head and pulled him harder against me as his lips and tongue found my hardened nipples.
He lifted me with his powerful arms and carried me into the silver-veined, white marble bathroom that was bigger than my studio apartment in New York.
I wasn’t surprised that the spa looked like a small swimming pool.
The spa was already full and bubbly. A case of empty champagne bottles was on the floor.
He stepped into the water, still holding me. As he lowered us in the warm water, I felt his erect penis slip against my thighs and I let out a little giggle of delight.
My body began to tremble, the fire igniting. I moaned softly when he moved his hand down between my legs, playfully caressing my clit. He took my hand and wrapped it around his fully erect manhood.
Then I saw the three champagne glasses.
“Expecting company?” I whispered.
“Do you mind?”
The question came from Tamara. She stood by the spa, wrapped in a white Egyptian cotton robe.
I like to think of myself as open-minded, someone who’s willing to try
new things, but making love with another woman wasn’t big on my agenda. I really am much more attracted to men. But there were other sensations, other experiences in the world, that were not always what you might say regulation. It wasn’t that long ago that sex with the man always on top in the missionary position was the norm. Who knew what the norm was nowadays?
Tamara slipped out of her robe. Like her brother’s, her body was tight and solid. With her smooth, pale, alabaster skin, she reminded me of an elegant marble statue.
She had picked up a tan that left her breasts and pubic area white, erotically emphasizing her private parts.
As she got into the tub, Pavel pulled me closer. I straddled him, spreading my legs wide, to let him plunge his rock-hard manhood inside me.
I felt pulsating waves as he went deeper and deeper into me.
Tamara came up from behind and slipped her arms around me. Her hands cupped my breasts as her lips and tongue teased the side of my neck. She gently twisted me toward her and devoured each of my nipples with her tongue.
She turned to her brother and kissed him, then returned to me, sucking my tongue into her hot mouth. She did this a couple of times, moving back and forth between the two of us. Pavel sucked her breast as his penis throbbed inside me and her tongue wrapped around mine.
I felt the explosion coming, roaring in me like a raging fire until it exploded in my brain, sending rapturous sensations up and down my entire body.
19
When I returned to my room in the wee hours, I was warm and comfortably flushed and more relaxed than I’d felt in months. I just wished I could have stayed with my new friends a little longer, but I knew that things were moving too fast.
In the elevator, I thought about the fact that I had just made love with two strangers, one of each sex … I knew I should be experiencing some guilt, I knew I should lament for the hundredth time in my life that I had simply been raised bad … which was completely untrue, of course. My parents weren’t just wonderful people, but if they were still alive, they would be horrified at my excesses. They were killed in an auto accident back in my college days, and I still missed them.
Aw, hell, I thought. For whatever reason, twisted morals, hopeless hedonism, I didn’t feel any guilt.
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