[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
"I am suitably impressed." So Lostwin had descendants around, descendants who
had done well.
Well indeed by their forebearer.
He smiled at the recollection of those times, and noticed that the brassy
woman backed away.
She was not as young as her outfit proclaimed, well past first youth, and
probably past thirty, perhaps even older if the devilkid genes ran strongly in
the blood.
"Take it you have no offspring, and your husband may look to greener forests?"
"My reasons should not concern you."
"Your reasons are your reasons." He turned and closed the door, slipping the
heavy bolt into place and shielding the action with his body.
211
For whatever obscure reason, she reminded him of another woman from the past,
a copper-haired woman who had also used her body beyond her wisdom, and paid
dearly. Even though there was little physical similarity, beyond a slender
waist and full breasts, the woman before him, thrusting herself at him while
demanding recognition, reminded him of the earlier lady. Reminded him of her,
without the subtlety, without the refinement.
"You never answered my question."
"About the price?" He smiled again as he moved back toward her. The smile was
both hard and amused. "No price, nor will I accept one. You pay the price from
your own body and soul."
"Philosophy is cheap."
He did not contradict her, knowing this woman would not understand. How few
there were who understood. How many women had there been, and how few like
Caroljoy, or Faith, or Allison, or Lyr? Or even Constanza?
His eyes looked past the woman in red, who stood, a full pout on her lips,
before the built-in shelves on which rested the ancient volumes he still
collected and read.
He did not look at her, even as she shrugged her way out of the red jacket.
Swissshhh.
The jacket, tossed carelessly, landed on the desk, with one sleeve dangling
halfway to the polished golden wood floor planks.
Under the imported red jacket, she wore a filmy formfitting blouse, under
Page 148
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
which she wore nothing.
The devilkid could see her nipples, nonerect, and a creamy and pampered skin
beneath the gauzelike blouse. His nostrils widened as he drank in the mixed
odor of excessive fragrance, woman, fear, and imported powder.
"Sit down."
She turned her head toward him as he stepped into the center of the room, but
did not move.
"Sit down!"
At his seldom-used tone of command, she sat, dropping into an old swivel in
spite of herself.
"Now listen."
Explaining would do no good. Neither would a gentle approach, not that he was
in the mood for gentleness. Not after her attitude. Not now.
He began the song with a near military stridency, a march-driving beat,
keeping his eyes on the woman as he did. The power of the double-toned music
caught her. She began to lean forward, her body moving toward him against her
judgement.
Slowly, slowly, he began to weave in the theme of betrayal, adding the notes
that sounded power.
He could see her breathing deepen, as the music began to reach inside her.
She said nothing as he finished the first tune. Then, he walked over to the
wall and extended the double-width pallet, spread the crimson and gray
comforter.
He walked back to her and offered his hand.
She took it and followed his lead back to the pallet.
212
"Sit here."
When she sat, he knelt and pulled off, first, her right boot, then her left.
He turned away from her, beginning the second song.
The second song screamed lust and power, power and lust.
As he reached the end, trailing off the last notes, he edged back toward her,
noting the raggedness of her breathing, noting how she had opened the front of
the thin blouse.
Her arms reached toward him.
"Not yet."
He could feel the cruelty of his smile, and nearly laughed, ignoring the
desperation in her eyes.
He began a third tune, more demanding in its own way than the first two.
Before he finished, her hands were on his arms, tugging him toward the pallet.
"Please . . ."
"Not yet," he whispered between notes as he worked toward the finish of the
third melody, dragging it from the depths where it had rested undisturbed for
so long. His eyes glinted as he saw her remove the blouse and began to slide
her nakedness from the tight trousers, her hips moving with his music.
He barely hesitated before beginning the fourth song, the hardest one, the one
that mixed power, lust, teasing, and betrayal.
When the last note died, the woman who had worn red, who had thrust her hips
and bared nipples at him, lay huddled on the corner of the raised pallet,
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]