Anew: Book Two: Hunted (23 page)

I want Amelia all to myself in a place with no memories and
no possibility of interference. A place where I can set her straight about the
nature of our relationship. For just a second, the old club flits through my
mind. I push that thought aside. I’m not that fucked up kid any more. I’m a
man, one who damn well knows what he wants.

Within sight of the park, I notice the elegant hotel built
more than a century ago in the Art Deco style that conceals a separate boutique
residence on its upper floors. The latter is well known throughout the city for
no-questions-asked service and absolute discretion.

I’m smiling as I step inside the ornate lobby filled with
towering white columns, gilded ceiling reliefs, and the signature potted palms.
Half-an-hour later, with a suite booked and a few special requirements in the
works, I continue on my way to Pinnacle House. Amelia’s had it easy so far but
it’s time to remind her who she belongs to.

Amelia

“I
don’t understand. I
thought you wanted me to stay here while you deal with Davos.”

Ian is back from the council meeting to my great relief but
his mood is a surprise. All the dark rage and barely contained violence that
was so evident earlier has evaporated. Instead, he’s relaxed, even buoyant, as
though he doesn’t have a care in the world.

I should be glad especially if that means he’s reconsidering
about going after Davos on his own. And I am. But something feels…off.

“That snake isn’t going anywhere,” he says with a shrug.
“Besides now that I’m on to what he wants, it’ll be fun to watch him twist in
the wind.” He takes a step closer to me, brushing his long fingers over the
curve of my cheek.“Trust me, babe, I take really good care of what belongs to
me. Davos isn’t getting anywhere near you.”

His possessiveness sends a long ripple of pleasure through
me. I want desperately to tell him how I feel but the words catch in my throat.
He looks unburdened, as though he’s shucked off all the dangers and concerns
that threaten us. As welcome as that might be under other circumstances, it’s
very un-Ian like. Before anything else, I want to understand what’s responsible
for this change in him.

 “Did you discuss Davos with the Council?” I ask.

“No point. That little get-together was strictly for show.”
He wraps a hand around the nape of my neck and pulls me to him. His lips graze
mine as he says, “Get dressed. You don’t want to miss that Russian fucker’s
contribution to Carnival, do you?”

I start in surprise, torn between dismay and delight. Dismay
wins, if only for a moment. “Ian! Don’t talk about Sergei like that. He’s not
just my teacher, he’s also a friend.”

 “Whatever. We’re leaving in half-an-hour.” His eyes, a
molten amber, skim me. “Hodge brought clothes for you down from the palazzo.
I’m sure you’ll find something suitable.”

I want to ask him what has happened to make him believe that
the danger isn’t nearly as serious as he thought it was just a few hours ago but
he’s already walking away. Over his shoulder, he says, “I’ll use one of the
guest rooms to get ready. If I join you, we’ll never get out of here.”

I believe him. The way I feel, I’d just as soon stay in.
Only my need to discover what lies behind this sudden, drastic shift in his
mood convinces me to do as he says.

Twenty-eight minutes later--I check the clock--I walk back
into the great room wearing the gown I chose and the matching accessories.
Hodge must have brought down a good third or more of the contents of the
dressing room that I discovered shortly after awakening at the palazzo. I’ve
surmised that Susannah picked out clothes for me just as she designed the
Golden Room and what lies beyond it.

My step falters as I recall where the concealed door in the
dressing room leads to--the Cabinet of Secret Delights that I’ve dreamed of so
recently. Something dark stirs in me that I don’t want to acknowledge. Susannah
didn’t know about the demons that haunt Ian, memories of the year he spent when
he was fifteen as a member of the brutal sex club his father founded and
controlled. If she had, I doubt very much that the Cabinet would exist. But it
does and I have no idea how to tell him about it, or even if I ever will.

The gown I’ve chosen is unlike anything else I’ve worn. The
strappy silk sheathe hugs my body from the curve of my breasts to my thighs
before flaring slightly to my ankles enough so that I can walk. A bold, blatant
red, the gown is encrusted with thousands of tiny, glittering crystals that reflect
the light with every step I take. Their weight is such that I found the gown
carefully folded between layers of tissue paper in a drawer rather than on a
hanger. My undergarments, such as they are, are also red--all silk and frothy
lace that make me feel as though I am wearing nothing. Going all in, I’m
wearing red stilettos attached by silk ribbons tied in bows at the back of my
ankles.

With the gown was a matching red lace mask that leads me to
guess that the costume was intended for Carnival. I haven’t put the mask on
yet, only held it up in front of the mirror to see what the effect will be.
Fitted closely to my face, it peaks over the bridge of my nose and has cut-outs
for my eyes yet it still resembles a blindfold. As such, it hints at a level of
submission and helplessness that I find disturbingly arousing.

Ian is already in the great room when I arrive, looking
breathtaking once again in formal evening wear. He’s standing with his back to
me looking out over the city. I can see my own reflection in the glass he’s
facing and so can he. Slowly, he turns. As his eyes rake over me, I realize
that I’m holding my breath. I release it slowly and take a step toward him.

“Can you help me with this?” I ask, holding out my mask.

He doesn’t respond at once, continuing to devour me with his
gaze. The moments stretch out between us. Need for him vibrates through me,
shocking in its intensity.

Finally, he closes the space between us and extends his hand
in a silent gesture of command. I place the mask in it and turn so that my back
is to him. He sucks in his breath as I fight to contain a smile. The gown
leaves me bare from my shoulder blades to the curve of my derriere. When I
realized how much of me would be exposed, I almost chose something else to
wear. Now I’m glad that I didn’t.

 A soft gasp escapes me as Ian traces the tip of his
finger down my spine and slips it under the edge of the silk. He strokes the
small depression just above the crack in my ass, probing gently.

“I want this, too,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my
ear.

My inner muscles tighten with a combination of shock, fear
and treacherous longing. How can he do this to me so effortlessly?

As though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, he chuckles
and places the mask over my face, tying it behind my head so that the red silk
ribbons trail down to tickle my back. My hair is up, secured in a twist from
which a few tendrils escape. He lowers his mouth to the exposed hollow between
the base of my throat and my shoulder. Against my skin, he murmurs, “You’re a
fire in my blood, Amelia. One I don’t think I can ever quench.”

Does that mean he would like to? I don’t have the nerve to
ask him, especially not when, without warning, he first sucks my skin, then
bites me lightly. The pain is small and fleeting but he leaves no doubt as to
his intent.

“I want to mark you,” he says. “I don’t want there to be any
doubt about who you belong to. Not in your mind or anyone else’s.”

I gasp and take a quick step away, turning to look at him.
He is power and male beauty, primal, fierce, unrelenting. Truly the prince of
my imaginings but also so much more. A man, real, vulnerable, passionate. And
seeming against all odds, mine.

Breathlessly, I say, “We should go.”

He frowns slightly. “Are you that anxious to see the Russian?”

The sudden flash of jealousy--again--takes me aback. I don’t
try to hide my irritation. “I’ve told you, Sergei is just a friend.”

His hand tightens on my upper arm, not enough to cause even
the slightest discomfort yet enough to leave no doubt as to his feelings.

“Make no mistake, Amelia, I’m not. I’m the man who wants to
possess you, all of you, in every way. Your desire, your longing, your passion
all belong to me and that has nothing to do with any damn paperwork.” His warm
breath brushes the back of my neck. “I’m going to teach you things that good
old Sergei couldn’t even dream of. Before I’m done you’ll know exactly who you
belong to.”

I’m torn between dumbfounded silence and darkly stirring
desire. Without waiting for me to respond, he takes my hand and strides toward
the elevator. I’m forced to run a little to keep up with him.

We’re half-way through the lobby of Pinnacle House--a
soaring space of marble and steel that I can’t help but find impressive--when
his link chimes. He grabs it from his pocket impatiently.

“What?” Silence for a moment, then, “Out, that’s where. It’s
Carnival. We’re going to have some fun. You might try it yourself, Hollis.”
More silence, followed by, “I’ll get around to Davos when I’m damn good and
ready. Just make sure that when I am, we know exactly where he is.” Before the
other man can say anything more, Ian disconnects.

Briefly, he scowls but in the next instant his mood shifts
and he gives me a blinding smile. “Ready, sweetheart?” he asks.

I nod but I’m not at all sure that I am prepared to deal
with this mercurial, seductive Ian. The man I love, who wants my ass and all
the rest of me as well. But I’m not about to say ‘no’ to him, not when I’m the
one who feels on fire.

We step out into an evening warm with the promise of summer
and exploding with color and sound. Carnival is truly underway, the streets
thronged with fevered pleasure seekers. The contrast between what I see all
around me and what I witnessed not even forty-eight hours ago at the Crystal
Palace is overwhelming. I simply can’t put the two events together.

“It’s as though nothing happened,” I marvel as we begin
walking toward the avenue.

“Nothing did.” Ian’s hand is warm and strong around mine. He
makes me feel safe and cared for even as he scatters my emotions to the four
winds. When I look at him in bewilderment, he says, “You should read ‘1984’. It
was written by George Orwell, a hell of a smart guy with a good take on how
certain things that he saw happening in his own time would play out in the future.
In it, history is constantly being revised. Anything that doesn’t fit with what
the government wants people to believe gets flushed down the memory hole.”

This is a side of Ian I haven’t seen before. He’s said very
little about his education apart from joining the military at the age of
eighteen instead of entering the elite university that his father expected him
to attend. His brilliance in weapons design is well known, suggesting prowess
in engineering and mathematics. But now I glimpse an interest in literature
that I hadn’t suspected, along with a willingness to engage with ideas that
challenge the validity of a ruling elite.

Even so, I can’t believe that any such fictional scenario
could actually come to pass. “That can’t work in real life. People were there,
they know what happened. How can anyone pretend that it didn’t?”

He shrugs. “What happened at the Crystal Palace is so far
outside their experience that they have no way of really processing it. They
have to tell themselves that it was a one-time event, never to be repeated.
It’s over and done with, everything is back to normal, and there’s nothing for
them to worry about.”

“That’s how a child would react.”

“Look around. What do you think people whose lives are
dedicated to self-indulgence really are? Mature adults?”

He has a point, one that I can’t deny. As young as I am in
certain ways, I feel ages older than many of the people I see in the streets,
men and women who seem intent on partying their lives away.

“No, I suppose not--”

I break off as a woman walks by covered in butterflies.
They’re so vivid that I need a moment to realize that they aren’t real. They’re
painted on her. Beautiful, multi-colored butterflies seem to flutter over every
inch of her skin from the hollow at the base of her throat over the swell of
her breasts down the curve of her hips and along her tapered legs. As lovely as
they are, they can’t conceal the fact that she is entirely nude. Even her sex
is adorned with an exquisite white butterfly that appears almost translucent,
its wings spreading across her cleft.

I’m still gawking when Ian bursts out laughing. His eyes
glisten with amusement. “I take it you didn’t know that Carnival is a
clothing-optional event?”

“That must be obvious.” I answer stiffly, stung by his reminder
of my naiveté. It’s the inevitable result of my lack of experience but that
doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

“You may want to brace yourself, sweetheart.” His smile
steals my breath. It’s wild, tempting, blatantly provocative, at once promising
pleasure beyond any I have ever known and daring me to surrender myself to it.
To him. Since the day we met, Ian has driven me to the heights of throbbing,
screaming ecstasy over and over again. Surely, nothing can surpass what I’ve
already experienced with him.
Can it?

 Holding my gaze, he says, “The night’s barely begun.”