The Wind Dancer/Storm Winds

by Iris Johansen

  Juliette gazed at Jean Marc’s reflection in the mirror. “But why? It’s a very fine wig and a very fine disguise. You’re a rich man who has had many mistresses. I live in your house. Therefore, isn’t it natural I should occupy your bed?”

  “Entirely natural.” His gaze narrowed on her face. “What are you trying to do, Juliette? I’m not a man you can tease with impunity.”

  “I’m not teasing you. I wouldn’t know how. What’s your objection to my pretending to be your mistress?” Juliette suddenly snapped her fingers. “I know, you don’t think I’m ravissante enough. It’s true I’m not pretty, but that needn’t make any difference.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head. “There were a few women at Versailles who weren’t pretty but still seemed to fascinate gentlemen.” She frowned. “I wish I’d paid more attention to how they deported themselves.” Her brow cleared. “Oh, well, I’m sure I’ll play the role very well. I’m not unintelligent, and if I do something wrong, you can always tell me. You’ve had more experience dealing with the demimonde than I.”

  “I’m to be your instructor, then?”

  “No, you must only—” She broke off as she met his gaze in the mirror. She realized she had gone too far. What demon prompted her to goad Jean Marc in the direction she had no intention of traveling? He was looking at her as he had that night in the dining room, and she again experienced the strange hot breathlessness. She glanced hurriedly away. “Never mind, I’ll probably do very well alone.”

  His black eyes glittered as he took a step toward her; the movement was stalking, predatory. “But the role you’ve chosen requires my complete cooperation.”

  “Not necessarily.” She turned quickly and started for the front door. “Only when we’re in public must you pretend to find me très intéressante. You can do that.”

  Jean Marc opened the door. “Oh, yes, I can do that.”

  The Cafés du Chat was brightly lit, noisy, and the patrons a mixed group of students, workers, and well-dressed merchants who were accompanied by ladies of various stations ranging from poorly dressed stolid peasants to flamboyant birds of paradise who laid no claim to domesticity.

  “You see, I’m not at all out of place.” Juliette sat down at a small damask-covered table in the corner of the room. “I’m certain that red-haired woman with the short fat gentleman is not his wife.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps I should study her.”

  “Don’t bother. I’d never consider her for a mistress.” Jean Marc motioned to a burly man wearing a leather waistcoat and white apron who was bearing a tray to another table. “And we’re not here to further your knowledge of demimondaines.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Juliette unfastened her cloak and let it slip from her shoulders to the back of her chair. “Her face is a trifle hard but very pretty and has—Why are you laughing?”

  His gaze was on the low square neckline of her wine-colored gown. “Forgive me, but have you not … blossomed?”

  “You think it’s too much? I have a small bosom, so I stuffed six handkerchiefs down my front to push me up and make me appear more womanly. Don’t gentlemen prefer ladies with large breasts?”

  “I believe you can dispense with the handkerchiefs.” His gaze lingered on the bared flesh glowing against the wine-colored velvet. “Large breasts are not required.”

  “That’s a relief.” She made a face. “The handkerchiefs are not at all comfortable. The lace borders scratch and make me want to pull them out.”

  “What an interesting—” He stopped as the burly man he’d summoned appeared at his elbow. “A bottle of wine and fruit juice for the citizeness.” He paused and lowered his voice. “And a word with Citizen William Darrell.”

  The man’s chubby, cheerful face didn’t change expression. “Will you have some of my fine lamb stew? It’s the best in all of Paris.”

  “I think not.”

  The man turned and wound his way across the room to the kegs against the wall. He returned and set a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. “It’s too late in the year for fruit juice.”

  “Water,” Juliette said impatiently. “And William Darrell.”

  “Water?” The waiter shrugged and turned away. “I will see.”

  “What’s wrong with the man? He’s not paying any attention to us.”

  Jean Marc poured wine into one of the glasses. “You should really get over your aversion to wine.”

  Juliette’s gaze was following the waiter. “He’s serving someone else. Why doesn’t he—”

  “A lovely fan for the citizeness?” A tall woman with glossy chestnut hair plopped down onto the chair between Jean Marc and Juliette and placed her straw tray of paper fans on the table. “Every citizeness wants a pretty fan to show where her loyalty lies.” She unfurled the fan in her hand. “Here’s one of the glorious capture of the Bastille. I painted it myself. See the red glow of the torches and the—”

  “The citizeness doesn’t want a fan,” Jean Marc said.

  “Perhaps one of Danton or Robespierre.” The woman fumbled through her tray and triumphantly withdrew a fan. “Here’s Citizen Danton. Notice the noble brow.”

  “This is a terrible painting.” Juliette took the crudely executed fan and shook her head. “And it doesn’t even look like Danton. Danton is ugly.”

  “But such a man has noble thoughts.” An engaging grin lit the woman’s freckled face. “I paint the ideal, not the man.”

  “You paint carelessly, and ideals do not excuse such a terrible misuse of color and form. Have you no respect for your craft? How can you offer—”

  “If you don’t like Danton …” The woman fumbled among her merchandise again and extracted another fan and unfurled it with a flourish. “The Temple, where our patriots hold those bloody tyrants.”

  “These towers are completely out of proportion. You have them almost the same size, and this one is much larger.”

  “Wait.” Jean Marc took the fan and looked at it more closely. “This one has a certain charm. Observe the pigeons, my dear.” He lifted his gaze to meet Juliette’s. “Four pigeons taking flight from the large tower.”

  Juliette’s gaze flew to the fan vendor’s face.

  The woman smiled. “You wish to buy this fan?”

  “I haven’t decided.” Juliette studied the woman with more care.

  The woman was well worth a second look, Jean Marc thought. She seemed to be a trifle under thirty, certainly not in her first youth, yet her yellow woolen gown flattered both her shining brown hair and full, statuesque figure. Her features were nondescript and her cheeks and snub nose liberally dusted with freckles, but the expression in her hazel eyes was lively and her smile full of humor.

  Jean Marc leaned forward in his chair. “Show us something else, Citizeness …?”

  “Nana Sarpelier.”

  “I’m Jean Marc Andreas, and this is Citizeness Juliette de Clement.”

  The woman unfurled another fan. “This one may please you. It’s a ship of our glorious navy. Notice the sails battened by the wind and the figurehead of Virtue Incarnate.”

  “And the name of the ship on the bow,” Jean Marc said softly.

  “The Darrell.” Juliette pounced. “Where is he? We want to see him.”

  “Who sent you here?” Nana Sarpelier unfurled another fan and batted her long lashes flirtatiously over the rim as she fanned herself.

  “The lady in the Tower,” Jean Marc said.

  The fan seller opened another fan. “That’s difficult to believe.”

  “How else would we know to come here?” Juliette asked. “We need to speak to William Darrell.”

  “There is no William Darrell. The name’s only a password.” The fan vendor closed the fan. “However, there are certain people with the same interests in fans as yourselves who might be able to help you. Give me your message.”

  “I need to ask the queen something and I have no way to get back into the Temple to see her,” Juliette said
. “But your group must be able to do so.”

  “We don’t risk contact unless it’s important.”

  “Would two million livres pouring into your coffers for our common purpose be considered of importance?”

  Nana Sarpelier didn’t change expression. “It’s certainly a good deal of money. Still, it would have to be discussed.”

  “When?”

  “I’m not sure. What message do you wish us to give to her?”

  “A question.” Juliette leaned forward. “Tell her Juliette needs to know who placed the object in the cache. The name of the person. The name.”

  The fan vendor took back from Jean Marc the fan depicting the Temple, gave him the one of Danton, and held out her hand palm up. “Give me a few francs.” She put the money Jean Marc gave her on her tray and stood up. “Merci, Citizen. The lady will be the envy of all when she displays my fan.”

  “When?” Juliette persisted.

  “If we decide to help”—Nana Sarpelier picked up the tray—“I’ll let you know when we’ve accomplished the task. Leave your address with Raymond.”

  “Raymond?”

  “Raymond Jordaneau, the man who served you. He owns the Cafés and is one of us.” She picked up the tray and sauntered through the crowded tables, stopping here and there with a smile and a word.

  “It’s done.” Jean Marc sipped his wine. “And now we wait.”

  Juliette nodded and reached for the paper fan portraying Danton’s face. “It’s perfectly dreadful. Do you suppose she really sells any of them?”

  Jean Marc smothered a smile as he watched Nana Sarpelier move about the room. “She probably does a very good business.”

  “But the work is shoddy and she …” Juliette glanced at Jean Marc’s face and then at Nana, who was bending over the obese gentleman escorting the red-haired demimondaine. “He’s buying a fan from her.”

  “Yes.” Jean Marc took another sip of wine. “So I noticed.”

  “Do you suppose he’s looking for William Darrell too?”

  Jean Marc chuckled. “No, I think he’s looking for a pleasant romp in any convenient bed or alcove.”

  “Oh.” Juliette looked at the fan vendor with new interest. “Why with her and not his red-haired lady? His companion is far prettier.”

  “Because a man can tell when a woman will open her thighs because she enjoys a man and when she does it because she enjoys the clink of coins.”

  “Does it make such a difference?”

  Jean Marc finished the wine in his glass and motioned to the man who had served them. “Yes, Juliette, it makes a great difference.”

  “How long do you think we’ll have to wait to hear?” Juliette turned to face Jean Marc as he closed the front door. “We should have urged her to hurry.”

  Jean Marc crossed the foyer and dropped his cloak and gloves on the tapestry-cushioned bench beneath the oval mirror. “It would have done no good.” He turned and walked toward her.

  “But we could have—What are you doing?”

  “Unfastening your cloak.”

  “I can do that.” She could feel the heat of his body and catch the scents clinging to him. He smelled different from the men at court. Not overly sweet, just clean and … pleasant.

  “But you must become accustomed to these small attentions.” Jean Marc slowly slipped the cloak from her shoulders, letting her feel the caress of the velvet on her bare shoulders before he tossed it atop his on the bench. “It’s only what I would accord any woman who gave me pleasure. It’s courtesy to return kindness with kindness, and I consider it my duty to see to your comfort.”

  He hadn’t moved away and she was experiencing a warm languor as she looked up at him. “It was … only pretense.”

  “Was it? I take my role most seriously. For instance, you mentioned experiencing a certain discomfort in the café. I didn’t think it fitting to aid you there, but now there’s no reason to hesitate.”

  “What discom—” She inhaled sharply.

  He had dipped his thumb and forefinger into the bodice of her gown, grazing her nipple as he searched for and then found one of the handkerchiefs. An instant of warm, hard flesh pressing against the soft underside of her breast, then the tug of material, the delicate abrasion of the lace as it slid slowly over her nipple.

  The muscles of her stomach clenched in response which wasn’t at all reasonable. He wasn’t even touching her stomach. He wasn’t really touching her breasts either, yet they were beginning to feel heavy, full, and tingling. He was pulling a second handkerchief from her bodice, and she gazed up at him helplessly while sensation after sensation moved through her.

  A faint flush mantled his cheeks, and she could see the rapid throb of a pulse in his temple as he slid the third handkerchief from her bodice. “Almost over. Three more. Six in all, you said?” His voice sounded thick, rough. His fingers searched beneath her other breast, deliberately rubbing the hard ball of his palm against the nipple.

  She swayed forward, biting her lower lip to stifle a cry.

  His gaze rose to her face as he pulled the handkerchief over her nipple, soothing and inciting at the same time. “As I said, you don’t need these. If you wish to appear more womanly in public, there are things I can do to help you accomplish your goal.” He pulled another handkerchief from her bodice. “Look at yourself,” he whispered.

  She looked down at her breasts and found them ripe, engorged.

  “Next time we go to the café, I’ll close the curtains of the carriage.” He was pulling the final handkerchief from her bodice with excruciating slowness. “There are things I can do with my hands.” He suddenly whipped the handkerchief past her nipple, leaving a streak of fire in its wake. “And with my mouth. Would you like that?” His nostrils were flaring slightly and his black eyes shimmered in the candlelight. “I think you would. Shall I show you?”

  The air around them seemed to be thickening, darkening, vibrating. “You make me feel … strange.”

  “But you like it?”

  “Yes. No. I’m not sure.”

  He pushed her gently down on the third step of the staircase and sat down beside her. “I’m sure. You wish to play the game. I knew you were ready to make the first moves the moment I saw you walk down the stairs tonight.” His head lowered slowly until his lips were hovering over the exposed flesh swelling from the bodice. His breath was merely warm; it shouldn’t have burned her. Yet it did burn and caused her to shiver as if with a fever. “You’re trembling.”

  His lips touched her flesh.

  She made a low sound and involuntarily arched upward. “Jean Marc …”

  “Shh.” His warm, wet tongue moved over her left breast, into the valley between, and then shifted to caress the right breast. “I used to wonder how you’d taste. Warm, sweet …” His hands slowly pushed down the bodice of the gown. “I want to see you.”

  Her breasts tumbled from the gown, the nipples pointing up at him, hard, erect. She felt heat sear her cheeks, her throat, her shoulders as she lay on the steps, her breasts lifting and falling with her quickened breathing.

  He carefully arranged the velvet gown so that the low neckline was beneath her breasts, framing and lifting them into prominence. “Now, there’s a lovely picture.” His voice was thick as he looked down at her. “White velvet and exquisite pink flowers. But they don’t have to remain pink. Let’s see if we can make them the same wine color as your gown, shall we?”

  His mouth closed on her right nipple.

  Fire, fierce hunger.

  She arched helplessly upward as he sucked, bit, tongued. She could hear the low groans he uttered deep in his throat as his hands cupped, squeezed, as his mouth worked its own sensual magic.

  He lifted his head to gaze down at her with glazed eyes. “Look at yourself.”

  Her nipples were deep, deep red, pointed and flaunting. As she watched he slowly took one between his teeth and gently tugged upward.

  She gasped as hot pleasure rippled through her.


  “I’ve pleased you.” He licked delicately at the engorged tip. “Now it’s time to please me.”

  She looked at him in bewilderment.

  “I only want you to ask me to pleasure you,” he whispered. “Isn’t that fair? I’ll give you the words and you only have to say them.”

  “I don’t—” She broke off as she saw his expression that contained desire, hunger, and something else. Something reckless, bitter, and infinitely darker in nature.

  “Why are you doing this? Why do you want to make me feel this way?”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Weak, trembling, as if I want—” She stopped, stiffening as she saw a flicker of satisfaction on his face. “That’s the way you want me to feel.”

  His beautifully shaped hand, olive dark against her fairness, squeezed and released her breast. “Yes.”

  Her gaze searched his face. “It’s lust but not lust. It’s something else too.” She pushed him away, sat up, and drew a deep breath. “You want to hurt me. Why?”

  “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do I want to bed you?” He smiled crookedly. “Because you taunt me and challenge me. Because one moment I think of you as a child I have to protect and the next as a woman I’ve no intention of protecting.” He paused. “And because you’re perhaps the strongest woman I’ve ever encountered.”

  She pulled her bodice back up over her breasts. “And that’s important to you? Do you want to break me just because I have strength?”

  “I didn’t say I wanted you to break. It’s only the game.”

  “What game?”

  He smiled at her. “Why, the one men and women always play with one another. There’s always a victor and a loser in that most interesting of battles. I prefer to be the victor.” He lowered his lips to brush her shoulder. “No one needs to be broken. I know how to win without crushing my antagonist.”

  “But you’d hurt me. Not my body, perhaps. You would try to wound me in some other ways. I can feel the anger in you.” She moistened her lips. “I don’t believe you are able to feel true affection for any woman. You just want to conquer me as my mother used to conquer all those men she brought to her bed. It was a game for her too.” She stood up, her hands nervously smoothing the skirts of her gown. “It’s a game I don’t know how to play.”