He managed to carry her upstairs effortlessly, thrilling Ivy with such a sweeping romantic gesture worthy of any Dumas hero. And when he reached his boudoir, he set her down gently on the bed and then quickly undressed. Her heart raced out of control at the sight of his body, even more glorious naked than clothed, his long, thick cock hard and ready to take her. She wanted so badly to please him.
“Kneel on the edge of the bed,” he said.
She did as he commanded, resting her weight on her elbows to position her willing backside for maximum access, though she was disappointed that he would choose not to face her during their first sexual encounter. She wanted to stare deeply into his eyes and read his soul as they screwed, but this could be a test to see if she was compliant with his demands. As she waited, staring straight ahead, she was determined to pass no matter how roughly he treated her.
He came up behind her, positioned the head of his prick against her moist opening, and entered her with one strong thrust that made Ivy yelp in surprise. But she was wet and ready for him, so her body stretched to accept the invasion. She let out a loud hiss of pleasure and settled in to give him the ride of his life.
He grabbed her hips to steady himself, and thrust back and forth, in and out, while Ivy moved her hips to match him, making appropriate noises designed to excite him. His deep penetration made her feel as though she were being split in half, though the familiar friction of sexual congress stirred Ivy’s own passions, and she soon felt overcome by the mindless loss of control.
As he moved faster and faster, his hips slapping against her ass, racing toward his own climax, she cried out, “Harder…harder!” and he complied with a fierce growl.
When Ivy’s orgasm crashed over her like a speeding locomotive, she flung back her head and screamed. Serge laughed, and fucked her harder and faster.
Finally spent, she peeked over her shoulder, pleased to see his eyes closed and lips parted, his handsome face transported with passion. Then he bellowed something in Russian and shuddered with his climax, spending himself inside her for what seemed like hours.
When he finished, he groaned, “That was magnificent,” and flopped on his back across the bed. Ivy stretched out beside him like a contented cat, letting her fingers caress his damp chest. He kissed her again and grinned roguishly. “You will do, Mademoiselle Doucette.”
Not exactly the enthusiastic reaction Ivy had been hoping for, but they were still strangers, and she had time to win his heart. She smiled. “May I tell the concierge to retrieve my bag from the waiting cab, and pay the poor driver?”
The count closed his eyes, a smile playing about his sensuous lips. “He did that the moment he saw me carry you naked up the stairs.”
Ivy chuckled in delight and kissed his chest. “You are one of a kind, Count Dragomilov.”
Eyes still closed, he murmured, “Now that we have fucked and will be living together, you may call me Serge, Ivy. What about this Madame Soubrise? Surely she will be expecting you.”
“She thinks I’m off nursing my sick sister.”
He laughed. “Very enterprising.”
Exhausted, Serge fell asleep, but Ivy lay awake, thinking of the expensive diamonds and emeralds he’d bought for another woman. She wondered about her identity, and if she presented a threat to Ivy’s newfound place as Serge Dragomilov’s mistress. She also wondered how she could ever persuade him to give her those stunning jewels.
Chapter Nine
Régine ran a reverential hand over the smooth, polished wood of Odile’s bed, savoring the happiness spreading through her like a healing balm. She fervently prayed that Odile was conferring her blessing on her upcoming liaison with Darius.
The bed had been delivered and set up in her second bedchamber an hour ago. She had always sported with her other lovers in her own boudoir, but she would reserve this room and this particular bed for Darius.
She ran her hand lightly over the silken sheets and fluffed the bank of soft down pillows. She tested the strength of the bondage rings, bemused. Did Darius suspect that they weren’t just for decoration, that they could add spice and variety to anyone’s lovemaking?
Perhaps he had bought the bed because he envisioned lashing her to the rings and having his way with her as she lay open, helpless and at his mercy. The few times a lover had requested tying her down, she had always refused, not trusting any man enough to give him such absolute dominion over her. So why did the tantalizing picture of Darius doing just that suddenly send tremors of excitement rippling along every sensitive nerve ending?
Perhaps his motives were no more sinister than seeing how much she had wanted her friend’s bed at the auction and buying the gift because it would make her happy.
To please her.
That’s what he had promised. To please her.
A courtesan’s success depended on satisfying her clients. Her own desires were secondary. The more considerate lovers also tried to reciprocate occasionally, but only as an enticement for her to perform better and give them more than their money’s worth.
She shouldn’t be so cynical. A few lovers had imprudently fallen head over heels in love with her and also wanted to give her the respectability of marriage. But they were rare.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” Molly said from the doorway, “but several packages have arrived for you.”
“I hope they’re from Clarridge and not Dragomilov.” She gave one of the pillows a final plumping. “Well, let’s go open them, shall we?”
Three packages awaited her on the drawing room table. Régine took the long rectangular one over to the settee and quickly unwrapped it, revealing a bottle of absinthe.
She opened the accompanying card. “‘To the woman who is as mysterious and enchanting as the Green Fairy. Clarridge.’” She smiled at Molly. “Ah, he must’ve seen the Mucha poster.”
“Everyone in Paris has seen the Mucha poster.”
“I’ll give him high marks for originality. Most men would’ve given me champagne.” Indeed, many had, and she’d appreciated every expensive bottle. But it was gratifying when a man took the time and thought to come up with something unique.
Régine opened the second box, and its card. “‘This reminded me of you.’ Again, signed Clarridge.” Her fingers parted the tissue paper with the eagerness of a child opening presents on her birthday. She gasped when she lifted his second gift out of its box.
Done in bronze, the small sculpture depicted a voluptuous naked siren draped along a rock by the ocean. Her long hair trailed down her shoulders and over her hip in sensuous whiplash curves that seemed to caress her glorious leggy body, blending with the waves undulating up and around her perch. She stared down pensively into the sea, which was a smooth, flat oval base suitable for collecting calling cards or Régine’s hairpins.
“This is an absolutely stunning work of art,” she said, “worthy of Rodin himself.”
“Must’ve cost his lordship a pretty penny,” Molly added.
Régine needed both hands to pass her the heavy figurine. “Display this on the hall table, where all can see it the minute they walk in.”
“Right away, miss.”
Régine managed to contain her growing excitement and waited until her maid returned before opening the third box. She read Clarridge’s card. “‘Every queen must wear a crown.’”
Her fingers trembled as she gently lifted the jewelry case out and unlatched the lid. When she lifted it, she let out a breathless, “Oh, my God. Will you look at this?”
Molly craned her neck. “What is it, miss?”
Régine removed the elaborate Byzantine gold headdress studded with rich cabochon emeralds and glowing golden topaz, with three long strands of baroque pearls on each side that would hang down to frame her face with soft, translucent light.
“What magnificent craftsmanship,” she said. “La Belle Otero will turn green and want to scratch my eyes out when she sees it.” The vulgar, flamboyant Caroline Otero was Régine’s chief rival
.
She walked over to the mirror and settled the heavy crown atop her head, reveling in the way light danced off the warm gold and the pearls whispered against her cheeks with the slightest motion.
She turned her head this way and that, admiring the richness of metal and gems. “I feel as regal as the Empress Theodosia.”
“You look like an empress, miss.” Molly cocked her head thoughtfully. “This Lord Clarridge fellow put some thought into choosing these gifts. Anyone could see that Dragomilov’s diamond necklace was fine and very expensive, but more a reflection of his own wealth and generosity. But these gifts? They’re not about Clarridge or his fortune. They’re a reflection of how the man sees you.”
Not a mercenary harlot who sold her body for gold Louis, but a green fairy, a sea siren and an empress.
She carefully removed the heavy headdress. “Sweet of him, and I am charmed, but such an attitude is not terribly realistic in my world. One must be clearheaded and never fall in love.”
Molly took the crown back to its box. “You can afford to let a little magic into your life, miss.”
Régine cared as much for Luc as she had for any man, but truth be told, life with the stodgy older man had certainly lacked magic.
“Before I take up with the earl,” she said, “I had better inform Monsieur Valendry that our liaison has come to its sad but inevitable conclusion.”
“Do give the poor man some warning. Men being the proud creatures that they are, there’s no telling how he’ll react to being given the boot.”
Régine had endured a number of acrimonious partings in her career and had no desire to repeat the experience.
“He’s a sophisticated gentleman, Molly. He’ll accept my decision with good grace and wish me well.”
“I hope you’re right, miss.”
The following morning, Régine awoke refreshed and optimistic, humming a sprightly tune she’d heard in a cabaret. Last night, she’d finished her letter to Luc, enclosed Odile’s riding crop, and sent them by messenger to the Valendry house, with emphatic orders to deliver the package directly into Monsieur Valendry’s hands.
How would Luc feel when he realized she was ending their association? He might allow himself a brief twinge of tristesse, but it would vanish. He’d accept her decision and find himself another lover with a strong arm and a taste for satisfying his particular desires.
When she arrived at Luc’s bank to close out her account, she was shown to the offices of the aptly named Monsieur Poisson of the thick, pursed lips and pinched, sour face. She recognized his type at once, the disapproving prude who always made love to his wife in the dark.
He didn’t smile and wouldn’t look her in the eye when she presented him with her bank book that recorded every deposit and withdrawal.
He flipped through it, rose to consult his files, sat back down and cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle Laflamme, this is most embarrassing. I’m afraid this account does not exist.”
Régine felt a solid lump of fear settle in the pit of her stomach. “Of course it exists. You are holding the evidence of its existence in your hand.”
He flicked his wrist and sent the book slithering toward her across his desk. “This is an obvious forgery.”
She snatched back her precious bank book, her only proof that she had money deposited here. Blood rushed to her face and she saw red. “I don’t know what game you are playing, monsieur, but I have regularly patronized this bank for the last year and deposited a goodly sum each time under the personal direction of Monsieur Valendry himself.” Her voice rose. “And now you have the audacity to tell me my account is empty, and my life savings are gone?”
“That is exactly what I am telling you,” he said, “because according to my files, this account does not exist, which means that you have never patronized this bank.”
“Does Monsieur Valendry know of this—this outrage?”
“Monsieur Valendry does not concern himself with nonexistent accounts or patrons.”
She bolted to her feet. “Evidently I’ve been dealing with a pack of thieves.”
Monsieur Poisson turned purple. “Mademoiselle Laflamme, I resent your accusations.”
She leaned forward and braced her hands on his desk, looking at him with murder in her heart. “I demand to see Monsieur Valendry. Now!”
Fear flickered in the banker’s eyes, and his mouth worked like a fish out of water. “Monsieur Valendry is a very busy man. I doubt if he can be disturbed.”
Régine took a deep breath and straightened. “Monsieur Poisson, you seem like a reasonable, intelligent man. I have friends in high places, many of whom do business with this very bank. If I don’t see Monsieur Valendry at once, I shall tell my friends that you’ve robbed me. They will not be pleased. Word will spread through Paris like wildfire. Perhaps they shall withdraw money from this establishment in droves. Your vaults will be empty. This bank will cease to exist for lack of patrons, and ultimately, you shall lose your position.”
He rose and bristled indignantly. “Are you threatening this esteemed institution?”
She smiled with forced sweetness. “I am merely suggesting that you act in your employer’s best interest.”
Poisson glared at her in ill-disguised dislike. “If you’ll wait right here, I shall see if Monsieur Valendry is available.”
And risk Luc having her thrown out before she had a chance to confront him?
The minute Poisson headed for the door, Régine fell in step behind him. He stopped. “Mademoiselle, I asked you to wait.”
“I will see Monsieur Valendry, and I will see him now.”
The man pursed his fish lips and made no further objection until they arrived at Luc’s upstairs office, where a clerk stood guard at a desk outside the door.
“Will you please inquire if Monsieur Valendry is available to see this—Mademoiselle Laflamme?” Poisson said.
With a shy, admiring glance at Régine, the young man rose, knocked on Luc’s door and disappeared inside. A moment later he emerged and gave her an apologetic shrug. “I am very sorry, mademoiselle.”
Before he could close the door, Régine charged, managing to sweep right past him before anyone could stop her.
Poisson’s outraged bellow of protest followed her as she hurried across Luc’s plush carpet. She came to a stop before the most imposing expanse of mahogany desk she’d ever seen.
Luc remained seated, his face frozen into a cold, livid mask.
“Forgive me, Monsieur Valendry, forgive me for this intrusion,” Poisson said. “I tried to stop her, I truly did, but she kept following me and insisting that she see you.” He reached for Régine’s arm. “I’ll remove her at once.”
“Lay a hand on me, Mr. Fish,” she said, “and I shall break it.”
He pulled away as if burnt.
“Leave us,” Luc said.
Poisson and the clerk left quickly and closed the door.
A deafening silence filled the room, a silence so profound Régine felt it settle around her like a damp, smothering fog. She stared at Luc, searching his implacable face for any sign of the man she’d welcomed into her life, the man who’d entrusted her with his deepest, most shocking sexual secrets. She couldn’t find him. He’d been replaced by this cold, hostile devil with horns and cloven hooves. Her heart sank.
“You know why I’m here,” she said.
“I received your letter of dismissal last night. I thought we had an understanding.”
“I provided you with a service, Luc, and my exclusive company, nothing more.”
“For which you were very well paid.”
Paid well enough to ignore her disgust at having to inflict such pain on another human being, even though he craved and demanded it. Paid well enough not to have her own strong sexual desires satisfied by her lover.
“Oh, so as long as I was well paid, I should’ve been content to dance to your tune until you tired of me, is that it?”
He gave her a mocking smile.
“But isn’t money all that matters to a whore?”
She said nothing.
Luc stared at her. “Have you taken up with someone else?”
“Of course. Why else would I have broken off our liaison?”
“Do I know him?”
“Darius Granger, the Earl of Clarridge. He’s the man who outbid you for Odile’s bed at the auction.” The bed that was now waiting for her and Darius to christen.
“An Englishman.” His voice was edged with contempt.
“Yes, an Englishman. One of my countrymen. So please have the grace to accept that our liaison has come to an end.” She held up her bank book. “I’ll take a draft for my money and be gone.”
Luc sat back in his leather swivel chair and studied her with pity and amusement. “Alas, mademoiselle, we have no record of your ever having patronized this bank.”
A wave of anger heated Régine’s whole body. She waved the book. “I have all the proof I need right here.”
“It proves only that you are a clever, calculating forger. Did you have an accomplice, or did you concoct this absurd scheme to defraud my bank on your own?”
This entire situation was all of Luc’s creation. He’d told Poisson and every employee what to say should Régine appear to close out her account.
She straightened to her most regal height. “How dare you accuse me of forgery when you are nothing more than a common thief?”
Luc’s complexion darkened, and he laughed, a sharp, bitter bark. “And you’re nothing but a common whore, who spreads her legs for money.”
“And I want the money my body earned, you spiteful bastard, and I want it now!”
“There is a way you can get your money,” he said. “I’ll tear up the letter you sent me, and we’ll continue as before. We’ll forget this unpleasantness and let bygones be bygones.”
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