Golden Paradise

Chapter Twelve

It wasn't a kiss of welcome or greeting or even pleasure; it was distinctly a kiss of possession, as if the harsh pressure of his mouth somehow indelibly acknowledged ownership. Struggling against his strength the moment she realized his intentions, she protested verbally as well as physically to his brutal kiss.

"You're drunk," she remonstrated, turning her mouth away with effort, shoving uselessly against the solid muscle of his chest, her hands small in contrast to his massiveness.

"I haven't had a drink in five days, dushka," he replied, his voice a growl, the endearment an epithet in tone, his arms tightening around her. He'd been traveling day and night for five days while she'd been smiling her special smile and offering more no doubt to every fawning man in Saint Petersburg. He knew what she could offer, he knew what her smile prefaced. He had been told she was everyone's darling and jealousy ate at his reason. His lips brushed over her cheek, his lower body pressed into her, and intent on being the next recipient of the Golden Countess's favors, he said, "Relax, darling, this won't take much of your time."

Those were not words of love or the sentiments of a lovesick swain, and while he'd come and taken her away, his intent appeared wholly without feeling. "Take me back inside, Stefan, damn you," Lisaveta whispered hotly. His mouth was millimeters from hers, and her body was pressed against the ivy wall with such force she could feel the buttons of his jacket imprinted into her flesh.

His soft laugh was unpleasant, his breath warm on her mouth. "Do your new lovers take orders?" He hadn't moved and the weight of his body was solid and resistant.

"Does your fiancée?" she snapped, ignoring the fact she was powerless against him, too angry at his seizure, rude purpose and insinuation to consider her precarious position.

His head lifted abruptly and his eyes in the moonlight darkness gleamed like Fire. "Yes, as a matter of fact," he said very softly, his mouth curled in derision. "Your turn."

"Then so do my lovers." She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing she'd refused all the men because they hadn't measured up to him.

His eyes narrowed at her confident tone, a cold fury overwhelming him. "I've heard," he said in a taut low whisper, "you're much in demand." So all the rumors were true. She'd been entertaining herself with a variety of lovers since she'd arrived in Saint Petersburg. Loris and Dmitri and Kadar and Tamada had all been telling the truth. How many lovers had she had? he hotly thought. He could almost feel his temper as a palpable heat rising in his body-or was it lust… or both? He knew too well how eager and erotic the Countess's style of entertainment was and knew she had the spontaneity and energy to delight a great number of lovers.

He wanted to punish her for her bewitching ways, and then call out and kill each man she'd slept with. In an earlier era he may have done that without a second thought. But one didn't publicly beat women any longer or lock them away in nunneries, and duels were, at least in theory, uncivilized.

He was, however, feeling uncivilized and savagely angry. He was, in fact, very near to losing control, so Lisaveta's answering words were exactly wrong.

"You taught me well," she said, her voice snide and too sweet and taunting.

It wasn't what he cared to hear. He would have preferred all the gossip to have been false; he would have preferred finding her asleep in her bed instead of at a ball, or discovering her quietly studying in some isolated library or embroidering, if women actually did that, or performing any number of other safe, innocuous, acceptable feminine pursuits. He would have preferred anything but her last reply. A strange wildness overcame him, as if he were an adolescent again, totally without restraint.

"Let's see then," he murmured, his chill voice matching the breeze off the Baltic, "if you remember everything I taught you." His hands moved up her back as he finished speaking and came to rest on her shoulder, his fingers sliding under the neckline of her gown in a small gesture of possession.

"Don't you dare." Her own fury and self-determination reverberated through her heated words. Her eyes shone like golden flame.

He stood, his hands lightly cupping her bare shoulders, his touch gentle as though his intentions were benign, as though her fury were irrelevant. "Darling, don't be naive. I attack redoubts bristling with artillery and enemy. Surely-" his fingertips traced the curve of one shoulder, an incongruously delicate juxtaposition to his heated words "-you don't think one small woman can stop me." His voice was very low, unhurried, almost tranquil.

"I'll scream," she challenged. Her hands were still caught against his chest, his body still curtailing her freedom.

"Perhaps later," he replied casually, his palm already sliding up the slender column of her neck. "You always scream," he softly murmured, "at the end." The tip of his finger gently tapped the yellow diamond pendant swinging from her ear. "I'm glad you like the earrings."

"You can't do this, Stefan," she warned. "Someone could walk out any moment." Her voice was more contained than her emotions with Stefan's aroused body pressing into her flesh. "Just release me now and you can go about your business." She tried to keep her tone reasonable and moderate.

"But you're my business." His answer was a teasing murmur, his hands drifting down her shoulders once again, stopping to test the resistance of the gold lace ruffle just below the curve of her shoulder.

"You came all the way to Saint Petersburg to see me?" Her query was laced with doubt and a dizzying curiosity and suspicion, too.

"Of course." His reply was so blatantly nonchalant it resisted belief. "And now," he said, the hush of his voice as languorous as his half-lidded eyes, "I'd like to see you."

"Stefan, be sensible," Lisaveta pleaded, suddenly realizing he was fully intent on satisfying his passion, here, now, within sight and sound of the ballroom. "Please…"

"I remember," he said with a faint smile, "you always pleaded-" his voice dropped to a whisper "-and were impatient."

His tone and words kindled heated memory and Lisaveta fought against the images evoked. She would not be seduced by him; she wouldn't be dragged from a ballroom with abrupt and staggering discourtesy and then begin to melt because his deep low voice was reminding her of endless hours of shared rapture and, yes, of her impatience and the reasons for it. Taking a breath to steady her tremulous feelings, she forced her mind away from those arousing memories.

"Stefan," she implored, not certain she could curtail his full intent, "at least move away from the vicinity of the door, I beg you."

He didn't pretend not to understand. Her voice and inflection were intense. Glancing briefly at the opened doorway no more than three feet away, he said, "Darling, you've taken on new refinements in Saint Petersburg." His words were sardonic and challenging, as if he wanted further concessions from her. "What will you do if I move?"

She didn't answer for a moment, provoked by his suggestion she had to somehow please him first. "Why must I do something to keep you from being pigheaded?"

He shrugged. "I thought we were negotiating for a new venue."

"A new venue?" Although she spoke in a whisper, the violence of her feelings was evident. "Is that what you call rape now?"

His lashes dropped fractionally in ironic reply. "Really, sweetheart, why all the ruffled outrage? It's not as though my wanting you will harm you in any way."

"This spectacle-should someone walk out of the ballroom-notwithstanding!" she fiercely replied.

He sighed as though her stinging response required at least one reasonable party. "Very well," he said, not in explanation but in magnanimity, "we'll move." And lifting her into his arms, he walked with her across the terrace and down the three wide stairs to the lawn below. "Is this better?" he inquired politely, as if the location of his assault on her were the only point in question.

Lisaveta lay rigid in his arms, refusing to touch him, and gazed around, her golden eyes incredulous. Stefan was standing at the base of the stone stairs directly in line with the ballroom door, in the middle of a great open expanse of lawn, the moon bright overhead. "No," she indignantly retorted, "this is not better!" She bit off the words as if they were poison.

He turned so they faced the villa, kicking the train of her gown out of his way. "You decide then," he said with no more emotion than if they were discussing the merits of lavender versus yellow kid gloves as a fashion accessory.

"Why are we doing this?" Lisaveta breathed, dismay vibrating in every hushed syllable.

Stefan looked down at her for a moment and his face in shadow held a menacing quality. "I know why I'm doing this," he said, his intention absolutely plain in his simple declaration, "and at the risk of further offending you, I don't really care why you are or aren't. I hope that's not too blunt."

It was another galaxy beyond blunt. "In that case, my decision is irrelevant," Lisaveta quietly said.

He didn't answer because the substance of his reply was clearly understood, and he thought for a moment how powerful jealousy was. He'd never been this rude to a woman before. In fact, he prided himself on his charm with the opposite sex. But then, he'd never been barraged by such overwhelming frustration before, and the force of his emotions was driving him. He felt it unkind to liken this to war, but the simile came prominently to mind. Lisaveta was the redoubt he wanted and he intended to triumph in his assault. She was the eternal enticing female who bewitched him like Circe or Venus, and he coveted her-at Kars, on his ride to the railhead at Vladikavkaz, on his train journey north and now, here, this instant.

Moving a few feet from where he stood, he set Lisaveta on her feet within the shadow of the terrace wall and without speaking slid the lace ruffles off her shoulders, forcing the bodice of her gown downward over the fullness of her breasts until they were exposed, pale white and enticing in the moonlight.

She stood rigid beneath his hands, knowing resistance would be useless, hating him at that moment for his callous indifference but feeling also an unnerving familiarity to the touch of his hands.

Placing his palms with infinite slowness under her breasts, he lifted them high, surveying their mounded beauty. His eyes were calculating as a critic; no soft emotion shone from their blackness. When he considered all the other men who might have admired them thusly, his temper flared. He was angry and tormented, twisted with jealousy, and it showed in his stance and moody expression, in his deplorable aggression and in his words.

"What do they usually say? How lovely, Countess?" Each quiet word was hollow with aversion.

"I don't answer to you," Lisaveta whispered, stung by the rudeness of his remark, trying for a moment to twist free until his fingers squeezed sharply and she instantly stood quiescent.

"I think we've gone over this before. The concept," Stefan softly said, "of physical superiority."

"Stefan, this isn't like you." She hesitated for a moment and then added. "I wish you'd reconsider."

He almost laughed. How quaint and bland a statement after he'd traveled across the expanse of Russia to do exactly this. "I'm afraid I won't," he said.

"I'll resist." Her voice was flat.

"Fine."

He didn't seem concerned and the mildness of his reply was more unnerving than his harsh anger. She knew she couldn't prevail against his strength. "Will entreaties help?" She was appealing, her voice softly earnest, trying any measure to deter him. Any second someone could walk out on the terrace, any moment they could be seen.

He released her breasts and for a moment she thought she'd succeeded in deflecting his purpose, but he didn't even glance at her when he answered, absorbed in lifting the gathered folds of skirt out of his way. "No," he said, struggling momentarily with the lawn petticoat beneath the burgundy silk, "nothing will help." The lightweight charmeuse fabric of her gown and the fine tissue of her petticoat was crushed around her hips in swift efficiency, and without pause, single-minded with jealousy and desire, Stefan slipped his fingers between the opening in her drawers and slid them inside her.

With shame and consternation Lisaveta felt his fingers glide into her moist interior without resistance, his nearness alone rousing her passion despite all rationale; he had only to touch her and she welcomed him, insensible to her anger or logic, as if her body could anticipate the pleasure he offered and willingly, selfishly, turn liquid with wanting. Fighting the staggering impulse to sigh in satisfaction, she stood motionless under his hands, resisting with all her faculties the building waves of bewitching sensation, determined to appear unmoved.

She'd simply remain impassive, she told herself, her eyes already closing against the pulsing between her thighs; she wouldn't respond, she'd ignore the flame racing through her blood and heating her skin, bringing a flush to her face and throat and naked breasts. She'd forcibly detach herself from the languid provocation of Stefan's gently stroking fingers, from their acute, intense penetration. She'd not allow him the satisfaction of-she caught her breath as his fingers touched her deep inside and uncurbed pleasure pulsed upward.

He smiled at her response and his success and then glanced for a moment at the terrace wall above them. Had he heard voices?

He moved her back a few steps until they were in the deep shadow, partially concealed, should someone walk down the steps, by a lacy pungent juniper, its deep bluish-green black in the moonlight.

"Stefan, you're mad," Lisaveta whispered, her back against the cool stone, her spine rigid because she, too, had heard the voices now.

"Mad for you, Countess," he murmured, intent on unbuttoning his trousers.

Oh, Lord, Lisaveta thought, terrified and aroused and staggered by her own wanton desire. "Wait, Stefan…" She spoke in a hushed undertone. "Wait till they're gone… or we could go… somewhere else. Stefan, please…"

But he was lifting her already as though she hadn't spoken. Holding her with the weight of his arm immobile for a moment and bending his legs, he entered her without preliminaries, his urgency reflective of his driving need. He was unconcerned with her pleasure or displeasure, oblivious to the people above them; he wished only to assuage his turbulent passion and in so doing exorcise his tempestuous fierce craving for her. He held her securely against the granite wall in a rhythm of demand, forcing her entire weight upward with the sheer strength of his compelling hunger, all the jealousy eating away at him, exploding in each forceful stroke, all of his anger at the Countess's favored position as the reigning belle of Saint Petersburg provoking his punishing power. He would, he thought, driving in impatiently, the frustration of their separation and his lengthy journey impelling each upward thrust, rid himself once and for all of his tormenting intoxication.

"Where do you suppose they went?" a woman's voice said, drifting over their heads in the moonlight.

And buried deep inside Lisaveta, Stefan closed his eyes against the drumming ecstasy racing through his senses.

"I'd say they're in his carriage on their way back to his palace. He looked like a man in a hurry." A knowing inflection underlay the masculine voice.

Knowing that, hearing that, feeling the full impact of that haste, Lisaveta wondered how she could be so defenseless against the pleasure Stefan provoked, immune to scandal and the presence of people a scant few feet away.

His mouth closed over hers, teasing, rousing, as if to say, "Ignore them, let me take your mind off them, think only of seductive feeling…like that and that and that," the rhythm of his lower body a powerful adjunct to his enticing tongue.

Wanting only to sustain the pervading rapture, to feel him more intensely, all her resistance forgotten with the throbbing splendor beating through her senses, the couple above them relegated to oblivion, Lisaveta slid her arms around Stefan's shoulders and pulled him closer. Her mouth opened to his sweet demands, her heated body melted around him.

As if she'd spoken, as if she'd said remember, he instantly wanted more. He wanted more leverage, he wanted to press deeper, he wanted with feverish impatience to enhance the tantalizing bliss. Lifting her suddenly, he held her with one arm while he wrapped her legs around his waist, then swiftly, as if these were the last few moments in eternity, his hands slid down her back to slip under her bottom. Supporting her entire weight now, secure in his possession, he slowly penetrated, focusing with self-indulgent intemperance on burying himself to the limits of his need.

Lisaveta gasped as extravagant pleasure washed over her.

Stefan held his breath for a moment, absorbing the riveting luxury of unrestrained sensation.

"Nikki's going to be looking for the Countess soon. Someone went to fetch him from the card room." The female voice held that cozy chatty ambience of casual gossip.

It was madness to cling to him, Lisaveta thought, hearing those ominous words, sheer unadulterated lunacy to let herself thrill to such voluptuous feelings. But she was inundated by a feverish desire so torrid it was melting away every sensibility in her body save her own carnal urges.

She'd been celibate too long-it had been three weeks since the mountains. Was that excuse enough for this madness? She chose to ignore the fact that no man of her numerous suitors in that interval had so much as piqued her interest, sexual or otherwise. And under the circumstances, crude as they were at this moment, with lust dominant and love unmentioned, it was wise of her psyche to suppress that thought.

"I'd be interested in Nadejda's reaction. Should we go inside and watch the fireworks?" The man's voice was infused with a keen curiosity. "Her scenes are always memorable, and Bariatinsky and the Countess seem to have left."

At that moment, Lisaveta cried out, overcome with a peaking intensity of rapture.

"Did you hear that?" It was the woman's voice.

Stefan's mouth swiftly covered the remnant of Lisaveta's cry, responding automatically, his reaction to danger instinctive, while his body continued uninterrupted its tantalizing and measured rhythm.

"It was the orchestra. See, there it is again." The couple's voices receded as they returned to the ballroom.

Stefan's head came up then and he grinned, his dark glance regarding Lisaveta with amusement. "You'll have to be more quiet, dushka," he murmured, "or we'll draw a crowd."

"If not for your self-indulgence," she whispered, "the problem wouldn't exist."

"If not for your popularity, Countess," Stefan sardonically replied arresting all movement for a moment, "there wouldn't be a problem."

"I don't have a problem." Her indignant whisper hung for a moment in the darkness.

"Neither do I," Stefan lazily drawled, and just as she was beginning to think she could defy her pulsing needs and gain control over her feelings once again, Stefan moved inside her, setting every intemperate nerve in her body to tingling.

No! she silently disavowed, feeling the first tremulous flutters begin, Stefan's eyes too observant, too knowing. She shouldn't, she mustn't climax, she must resist behaving like a lascivious trollop under that amused insolent stare.

"No-o-o-o," she whimpered against the injustice of her emotions and her peaking ecstasy.

Lisaveta's gratification triggered Stefan's own release. Their passion matched as it had so often in the past, and he fought against responding so exactly to her unbridled sensuality. She was flamboyantly sexual, resplendent in her voluptuousness, and every man reacted to her as he did.

He tried then to restrain himself, to set himself apart from her legions of lovers. He intended to use her for his own purposes, pragmatic purposes; he wouldn't be tempered by her response, and he controlled his prodigal impulses for a moment more. But Lisaveta reached up then to kiss his mouth in unthinking desire as she peaked, her lips soft and sweet tasting as he remembered, and he groaned into their lush resiliency, felt his shuddering climax begin and knew he couldn't stop himself.

"No…" he softly disclaimed as his white-hot lust poured into her.

"No," they whispered in unison as their bodies met in perfect harmony and the universe stood for a suspended moment in starlit brilliance around them.

Short minutes later, tugging the lace ruffles up over her breasts, he patted them lightly in place, shook out the lace flounce on her shoulders and then slid her petticoat and the burgundy silk of her skirt down over her legs. Without expression, he buttoned his trousers and tucked in his shirt while Lisaveta stood in shock and anger, furious at him… and at herself for responding so intensely. Still without speaking, he straightened the cuffs of his shirt, adjusting them to his jacket sleeves as though it mattered with no one in sight, and then with a quiet, "Thank you, Countess," he walked away.

She watched him stroll down to the shoreline and then disappear into the birches bordering the lawn, wanting to strike out at him in outrage, wanting to follow him with a screaming tirade of wrathful indignation, wanting also, unfortunately- disobedient thought-to cling to his arm and say, "Take me with you."

Her feelings were in untidy anarchy, a complicated muddle of wishful fantasy, lovesick yearning and indiscriminate rage. He was too beautiful and self-assured, too sought after and resistant to love. And it was bitter fate that she should want him anyway.

Still warm, with cheeks flushed and pulse pounding, Lisaveta welcomed the sea breeze. Shutting her eyes briefly, she leaned back against the cool granite, letting the sensations of sated passion subside. She shouldn't have been so physically receptive, she thought uneasily; she should have been less susceptible, shown more control and resisted him. Why couldn't she coolly deal with Stefan, save herself the humiliation of matching his need with her own, instead of crying out in delight, clinging to him, wanting him desperately? His motives, though, were never in question, even if hers were disordered and bewildering; his were purely carnal. And while he denied being drunk tonight, she wondered if perhaps he was. How else did one explain his shocking behavior?

But perhaps Stefan lived constantly on the brink of scandal; maybe if she were to ask, Nikki and Alisa would confirm that seizing women in ballrooms and making love to them where all the world might observe was ordinary procedure for Prince Bariatinsky. He did, after all, number Catherine the Great and Prince Orlov among his ancestors, and both had been monumental egos in an era that subscribed to monumentality as a credo. And from all Militza had told her of Stefan's father and mother, they had shown every sign of regarding impulse as a virtue.

And while she might decry the vice of capricious impulse, she in fact had reacted just as spontaneously. Her initial refusal had stemmed from anger. She had wanted him, too, and he must have been aware of her body's response even as she protested.

It was impossible any longer to deny her need of him. She'd proved it, demonstrably, tempestuously, and she might as well confront the truth.

She belonged to the legion of women-ex-lovers, current lovers and future lovers-who found Stefan irresistible.