Imperfect Forgery: (A Dark Romantic Suspense)

by G. D. Madsen

  Mauro retreats defeated, and my eyes skim past him to the man behind who is still standing there looking back at me. The teasing smile is gone. Instead, his gaze pierces me through. What does he think of me now?

  Mauro gets in the car, indistinguishably cursing under his breath and hits the accelerator. I dare to take one last glimpse at the man, who for a moment stopped the world. To my surprise, he still watches the car.

  A strange warmth floods my lower belly. For the very first time, the idea of intimacy does not twist my stomach. I ache to find out how his olive skin appears to the touch, how those teasing lips taste, and how his eyes shine when he is with a woman.

  I shake those images out of my head before Mauro notices and force myself to turn away.

  The stranger will forget all about me in no time. Why would a man like him be interested in a paint-stained student with baggy jeans and a French braid? Men only desire the seductress Lavinia – dressed and styled to drive a man crazy enough to do absurd things.

  Mauro drags me straight to the bedroom before the entrance door to the apartment even closes, desperately needing someone to humiliate to compensate for the humiliation he endured.

  When he's done, Mauro goes to the bathroom. I remain on the bed, my face buried in the damp sheets wet from the tears I could not suppress. My whole body hurts from his brute force.

  The entry door slams shut five minutes later, and I curl into a ball on the bed and weep.

  After I have cried every tear, I take a quick shower and pour myself a glass of cold white wine from the fridge – the only luxury I am allowed.

  Then I pick up the phone – the secret luxury I allowed myself.

  Mauro's brutality obliterated my earlier fantasies of the man I saw today, but nobody can eradicate the need to hear David's voice. If anybody can calm the sickening ache Mauro caused, it is David – the only remedy effective enough to make me forget my life.

  "Hello stranger," David sings into my ear as he answers the phone, and a silly grin takes over my face. "You are early tonight."

  "Oh, I'm sorry," I say immediately. I haven't considered he might still be busy. "I can call later."

  "No, no, no," he rushes with his answer. "Your timing is excellent, actually. I am buried head over heels in boring paperwork, and you just gave me a perfect excuse to procrastinate."

  I cannot help but chuckle. "I have been called many things, but never the reason to procrastinate. You certainly know how to make a woman feel special."

  His laughter caresses my ear. "What can I say, my compliments are original."

  "Patent pending?" I tease him. "Or am I your lab rat? A test rabbit, maybe?"

  "Sharp tongue you have, lady." David laughs and clears his throat. "Tell me, does it equally sting when you kiss?"

  My face catches fire, and all my teasing lines fly out the window. "Depends on a kiss," I reply nonetheless, my voice a little shaky.

  "Hmm... I'd like to find out." His words are a soft murmur now.

  The fire from my face spreads over my body.

  "I could be a willing guinea pig myself for this purpose alone," he adds. There is a strange undertone in his voice tonight – the one causing my body to respond in ways I never imagined possible until today.

  "But you don't know how I look." I attempt to reason with him, or maybe myself.

  "I know how you sound and what it does to me."

  "What does it do?" My voice turns into a hum matching his.

  "You'd blush if I told you." David seems quite determined to seduce me tonight.

  "I don't blush easily," I say and catch myself doing precisely that – blushing.

  "Your voice makes me wonder how it would feel to fall asleep with you in my arms." David's voice deepens. "How it would feel to caress your skin and trace every curve of your body with my lips..."

  I abandon any reason, close my eyes, and allow the provocative words carry me away.

  "I wonder how you would sound when I..." He pauses, and I am ready to mourn the loss of his voice in my ear. "No, I'm sorry. I should not be saying these things…"

  Please, do!

  "Why not?" The sultry undertone is contagious.

  "Because I have no whiskey to blame."

  "For what?" I ask, suspecting the answer already. Nevertheless, I need to hear him say it.

  "For my desire to find you, and do the dirtiest things to you all night long."

  Strangely enough, his confession does not scare me; it tempts me to give in to this fantasy.

  If only it were possible…

  Still, I dare to play his game. "What if you find ten children and a big-belly husband lying on the sofa in front of a TV?"

  "You would've had to start early to produce ten," David laughs.

  I do not. His words are like a bucket of ice-cold water, flushing me back to reality.

  If Silvio Beltrani wished for it, I would have had no choice than to obey. However, he had other plans for my body. As horrible as they were, they allowed me to avoid pregnancy.

  "But I have to call your bluff."

  David's words draw me back from the gloomy recollections, and I catch my fingers unconsciously rubbing the birth control implant scar. "Yes?"

  "It's way too silent where you are. No way would ten children and a husband in front of the TV make zero noise."

  His comment makes me relax enough to take a big sip of my wine. "You got me. I am a lonely alcoholic."

  "That I can believe," he teases me again. "I quite like it, in fact. If you drink alone, I can be sure there is neither husband nor children in sight."

  A deep sigh escapes my lips. "I thought it would be easy to remain strangers with you, but I don't want to lie or give you false ideas. There is somebody..."

  Silence.

  What have I done?

  "Are you happy with him?" he finally asks.

  "God, no!" I blurt out before I slam my hand over my mouth. Did I really say this out loud?

  "Then why are you with him?"

  Because I have no choice... "It is a long story," I reply, praying he drops this subject.

  David does not. "Do you love him?"

  "How do you know if you love someone?" I ask, fighting a lump in my throat.

  "I don't think I can give you a simple answer," he says. "I am not the best to tell people about what love feels like. I can tell you this, though: every love story eventually ends in heartbreak."

  "Like when you lost the woman you spoke of the very first night?"

  David sighs. "You are quite correct. Yes, I loved her, or so I believed. She broke my heart a long time ago, but her death was still painful to accept."

  "I'm sorry," I whisper. I have no idea what happened, and I don't want to pry, not when David's voice resembles the hurt man I spoke to the first time.

  I understand his pain all too well. It was heartbreaking to see my best friend die. I still mourn him, especially when he is in the same room with me.

  "Don't be sorry. If anyone should be sorry, it's me. I failed to stop her attackers. So much for my proud Tuareg name..."

  David's statement distracts me. "What name?"

  "Forgot to tell you about this last week." His voice softens. "Like every baby, I got a secret name to accompany me through life. Amastan was my grandmother's choice."

  "What does it mean?"

  "A protector, a defender," he explains with obvious sarcasm. "See how I failed that name?"

  I close my eyes to push away the memory of how Mauro failed me when I most needed him. "I wish I had somebody like you to protect me."

  "Will you let me try?"

  It would be equal to signing his death sentence.

  "Do girls get secret names too?" I ask, hoping to change the subject again.

  David accepts my retreat. "Sure. Would you like a secret name, Lava?"

  "I'd love one," I confess eagerly, and a smile returns to my lips.

  "I could call you Lunja." The seductive undertone of his words soothes my an
xiety. The dangerous and dark path our conversation could have turned to is now behind us.

  "My fairytale princess."

  I burst out laughing like a mad woman at this statement.

  Once upon a time, before he preferred seeing my tears, Mauro could make me smile, but I do not remember ever laughing as I do talking to David.

  "Sorry to disappoint," I manage to say in a relatively controlled tone. "I am far from being a princess. Cinderella might be more suitable. After all, I am stealing time to chat with a prince."

  David's laughter mingles with mine. "Darling, the only thing that prince and I have in common is our desperate wish to solve the mystery behind the girl. Unfortunately, unlike the prince, I don't even hold a slipper to fit your foot." He stops laughing. "But you know, he does solve the mystery at the end. And while Cinderella might not have been born a princess, she was destined to become a queen. Of course! Why didn't I think of this? Kahina..."

  "Kahina?"

  "It's perfect," David says with a hint of flirtation I am beginning to recognize. "Centuries ago there was a Tuareg warrior queen Dihya. She was so unstoppable her enemies believed her possess supernatural powers. They named her Al-Kahina, or the sorceress, in Arabic. Through the ages, she became known as Kahina. That is you, my dear smooth talker who bewitched me with her voice."

  "No, I am even further from a sorceress or a brave queen."

  "I don't care if you believe it yourself," David dismisses my self-doubt. "I will call you Kahina from now on, and one day you will start believing it too. My Kahina..."

  "I like how it sounds when you say it," I confess, my heart fluttering.

  "Kahina... I need to see you..."

  "No," I respond, fighting temptation. The desire to give in is almost unearthly. "I can't..."

  "Yes, you can. All you need is to want it."

  "I do!" Again, I fail to keep my mouth shut. "I want to see you so much it hurts to say no..."

  "Then say yes, Kahina," he tempts me again, and his words work like a spell. "Forget all your uncertainties and concerns, and say yes."

  "Yes..."

  What am I doing?!

  The words flew out of my mouth like birds desperate for freedom, because I am desperate for the slightest glimpse of freedom. As desperate as I had been for the sight of the blue sky once upon a time. That desperation was the only weakness Father never discovered, or he would have used it against me.

  He would surely use David against me, were he ever to find out, but I'm unable to resist the temptation. It will be my deepest secret. "Next Friday?"

  ∞∞∞

  Why did I agree to meet with David?

  The fear paralyzes me now that I am in Father's mansion upon his request. It terrifies me speechless that the famously ruthless Silvio Beltrani might learn about David. He might realize I am hiding something simply by looking at me. Until now, he has been too busy owning me, however.

  When he pinned me down on the dining room table after lunch, I cried out. Mauro did leave bruises, and the fury in Father's eyes made me shrink on the spot. Mauro broke the rule, but I feared I would be the one to pay the price.

  Instead, he took me upstairs to his room, and for the last couple of hours, I erased every rational thought from my head.

  Sex with him is always challenging. It may not hurt as much when Silvio is in a good mood, or when he does not punish me, but he thrives at pulverizing every last fragment of dignity I manage to patch up when he is not around. Father consumes my soul only to mercilessly spit it out when torture and pleasure he inflicts merge and become inseparable. The only way to preserve any sanity is to turn my mind into a blank canvas.

  "Sweetie," Father's deep voice startles me. He stands by the bathroom door naked, water dripping off his hard body. In his fifties, he still looks menacing and invincible. "Shower and get dressed. We don't want to be late."

  He pins me to the wall when I walk past him, and his heated body engulfs my entire back, pressing my exposed breasts against the cold stone. "Do not disappoint me tonight," he snarls above my head, and I feel small and feeble against his broad stature.

  Tonight is a special night, the one he's been plotting for a while now, and I am the leading actress.

  "If you fail, we will play with water all night long. Would you like that?"

  I shake my head, unable to speak.

  "No? You still believe you get to choose. Come to think of it, you are about to get wet, anyway. Why don't we enjoy a little foreplay?"

  He steps aside.

  "Please, don't..." I whisper, still facing the wall.

  He doesn't say a word. He doesn't touch me. Unlike Mauro, Silvio uses no physical force to subdue me, unless he desires to. This moment, he is reminding me that choice is the luxury I do not possess.

  Just like his mercy.

  I quietly walk into the bathroom, my heartbeat deafeningly loud in my ears. Silvio steps inside the shower with me, a small piece of cloth in his hand. Soon the running water swallows any other sound. I choke and drown at the same time while drizzling water soaks the towel on my face. Silvio holds me up, my back slamming against the cold tiles thrust after agonizing thrust that last for eternity before my entire body convulses with orgasm so violent I suck in half of the towel in a mute scream.

  Silvio rapidly pulls the cloth off my face, and I cry and cough uncontrollably in the arms of my torturer.

  Against all the odds, Silvio carefully lands me on my feet. "Now get ready." He kisses my cheek and leaves.

  My legs are too shaky to keep me upright. My butt hits the shower floor the moment Silvio shuts the door behind him.

  I crawl into the corner where water cannot reach me and hug my knees, burying my face into my flesh to mute the sobs. If only I could equally mute the onslaught of disgust for failing to control my body’s reaction yet again.

  I hate myself.

  Chapter 5

  David

  Leaning against the column in the dimly lit art nouveau style hall, away from all the fuss, I observe the insanely wealthy snobs arrive and flash their false smiles around.

  It's a circus I would rather stay away from, but this Saturday night I am out on a hunt. I could not have picked a better hunting ground than the auction where wildly priced private art pieces exchange hands.

  Gregory doesn't know about my plans. Flashing a badge to get in would be useless, anyway. This is one of those few times when being born into French aristocracy holds its perks. The downside, though, I had to dress up like a goddamn penguin to blend in.

  I examine the crowd for any dubiously behaving individuals, certain that whoever the mastermind of the heist was, he or she would not miss this happening. The room is an equally alluring hunting ground for them to choose another target.

  Half of those people do not care what they bid on. They come to display their wealth and status. It is the experts they hire, who tell them if something is worth the fortune.

  One couple catches my attention. The man must be in his fifties, considering his short hair is more white than grey, matching his neatly trimmed beard. Only his heavy eyebrows are still dark, just like his eyes, adding to the overall menacing vibe surrounding him. He is tall and wide. The way his body fills the tailored shiny black suit leaves no doubt there are iron muscles underneath.

  The young woman next to him is almost fortunate to have chosen to sell her youth to this guy, and not some oversized tycoon. The man shakes hands with practically every person in the room as if he owns them. He surely behaves as if he owns her. The girl's right hand is resting on the man's bent arm, a clutch in her left hand. She greets people with a polite nod, no more, and smiles obediently when the man speaks.

  For some reason, I cannot stop watching her. A deep blue silk gown hugs her body tight and ends just below her knees. A single side slit reveals her bare thigh when she shifts her weight, and I find myself craving to run my hand up her leg. The room is chilly enough to notice she is not wearing any bra, and yet no other ma
n dares to drop their gaze. In fact, nobody looks at the girl for longer than required to greet her. This awkward scene raises my curiosity. The man must be something more than just another wealthy snob if nobody attempts to glance at his date.

  I, however, keep staring at her erect nipples, unable to stop imagining how perfectly her breasts would fit inside my palms. Fuck! My trousers tighten dangerously at the thought, and I close my eyes to collect the last bits of my reason.

  When I open them again, the couple is out of my eyesight, and now I am desperate to locate them.

  No, not them.

  Her.

  I finally find them, and this time, I capture a better sight of her face. Her hair is up in a thick bun. Small ripples are still visible on top of her head, and one loose curly strand trails down the side of her neck to her back.

  She glances in my direction, probably sensing my fixated stare. Her hazel eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and my heart skips a beat.

  I silently drink her in, incapable of focusing on anything else. It is her – the same girl who passed me as I was heading to the Academy to speak with the Classic Arts professor.

  They could not seem more distinct - the student in baggy jeans, splattered with paint, and this elegant creature. Except, those baby deer eyes and soft full lips prove my first assumption correct.

  She smiles as if apologizing for looking this stunning, and I realize my mouth is gaping.

  Her smile fades and her lips part. She recognizes me. Sure, I appear entirely different from the guy in casual clothes and messy hair, but I am not a clueless fool, unaware of how he looks. I am not easily mistaken for somebody else, no matter the attire.

  The girl turns away immediately but soon rewards me with another glimpse of her face. Her long coal-black eyelashes flutter as if she is trying to fight overwhelming shyness to look at me.

  My pulse skyrockets, and I am afraid the stitches of my penguin suit bottom are going to tear any time now.

  We keep on looking at each other until a shadow of fear darkens her eyes. Less than a millisecond later, she faces the man. He says something, and a broad doll-like smile takes over her lips. For the first time this evening, she actually extends her hand to the man she is being introduced to.