Silvia stared at him, appalled. He didn't know six opals had already gone to ElseWorld. But if he was right, what would happen if she took the other six there too?
“And I hope to persuade you
and
your opals to stay in Rome as well. With me. We worked well together in the Forum. And I'll be in need of a new foreman soon, once I rid myself of Ilari. You are a talented archaeologist. And I do love you.”
She pinched the inside of her elbow, intentionally bringing on tears. Misty-eyed, she went to gaze up at him. “Truly?” Unfortunately his hand caught hers as it ventured into his pocket for the opal. His other hand lifted her arm, kissing the very spot she'd pinched.
“Give me that damned stone and let me go,” she gritted, jerking away.
“Since I'm the optimistic sort, I'll assume you mean that only as a temporary rejection,” he said. “But you didn't answer my question, yet again. And until I ask my last oneâofficially askâthen you must remain with me.” Going to his wall safe, he spun the lock and promptly deposited the opal inside.
“Let me have it or I swear to you that I will leave you with a dead body on your couch.”
“Mine?” he enquired mildly.
“My host's!” she shrieked.
“Listen to me,” he said, his tone going serious. “There are other reasons for you to remain with me. Since you left, investigators from ElseWorld have been lurking around the Forum asking about Michaela's whereabouts.”
Alarm filled her. More of Pontifex's henchmen. They had to be. She began pacing, winding up at the window overlooking the canal. Plopping down in the window seat, she considered her next move.
“Tell me why you want the opals. Let me protect you,” he said, coming to stand before her.
“I can protect myself,” she informed him.
He touched the bruise on her face, and she shrugged him away. “That happened to my host, Angelique, not to me. She was left for dead by her devoted husband.”
“Gods,” he said, shaking his head, as some of the reality of what her life was like began to sink in. “This form of hers; this body you inhabit. How long will you keep it?”
“She'll truly die within weeks.”
“And then what?”
“Then I become Ephemeral.”
“Visible?”
“I can vacillate between solid or wraith form as I choose for a twenty-four-hour duration. After that, I become weak and must take another host or perish.”
“So now I know the worst,” he said. “And I still want you.”
He pulled her into his embrace and she let him, wanting to feel his arms around her one last time. Taking her place in the window seat, he set her on his lap and brushed her bruised face with his lips, his hands caressing her back.
“I assure you that you do not know the worst, signor.” Her expression grim, she tried to drive him away with words. “You don't know me, Bastian. I don't even know myself. I never know when I wake up in the morning if I'll go to bed that night as the same person. I've exchanged hosts hundreds of times over the centuries and I'm affected by each one. I'm a jumble of their peculiarities and abilities. A certain strangeness comes with that.”
But he didn't go from her, and only rubbed her back with his big hand and tucked them both more securely in their window seat. “How do you manage to stay sane?”
She shrugged. “I don't look too far ahead. So just give me the opal and accept that I have an important use for it. And don't ever again tell me that you love me just to get information.”
His cheek nuzzled her hair. “I know how to get information from a woman without claiming to love her.”
“I know all about the pleasure you can give a woman. I was Michaela for a time, remember?”
A tension fell between them, one spun of sensual recollections. “Yes, I well remember. And I also remember how you and she departed from me. I am reminded of how much I anticipated our reunion.” His hand lifted her face.
She searched his eyes and was reminded as well. “Then let us have each other again,” she whispered. “Once more, and we'll put off arguing over other things for a time.”
Her mouth touched his and his arms tightened around her, his own mouth hungry. They both worked at her skirt until she was free of it; then he lifted her to kneel over his lap, facing him. His hands fumbled between them, and no sooner had he opened his trousers than he thrust himself inside her. She gasped and arched against his chest, hands clinging to his shoulders. And for a moment they did not move, but only thrilled to the sensation of their initial joining.
Her hands caressed his nape. “I've missed you,” she admitted against his throat.
His arms went around her again. “And I, you.” Then he was moving her over him with a masculine need and strength that spiraled her desire higher. Sheets of rain beat at the windowpane behind him as the storm raged on, matching the wild pace of her heart. They made love there in the tempestuous haven of the window seat, their mating hard and desperate and done in haste, their gasps and moans spicing the air.
He spoke, hot against her skin. “Gods, I love you. . . .” Then, “Ninety hells, what's your name?”
She shook her head, and in several more thrusts, bodies too long denied were both shuddering together in ecstasy. Moments later, she slumped over him, her breath still coming in gasps.
His head fell back against the glass, his hands holding her hips. “Anya.”
She looked at him, frowning. “What?”
His eyes slitted open to view her. “Your name. I'm guessing.”
She shook her head, smiling. Happy to be with him and wishing it could last.
His hands began to wander, caressing over her shape. “Maria, then? No, I have itâEsmerelda.”
She laughed. “Stop.”
His hands on her back nudged her forward to sprawl over him. He was still hard in her and she pulsed on him, an echo of the orgasm he'd given her. “It's good between us, Ephemeral. Don't deny it.”
She ducked her head, arms looping his back, silent.
His shoulder pushed at her, wordlessly requiring a response.
“I don't enjoy indulging in postcoital reminiscences.”
A hand stroked over her hair, pushing a lock behind her ear. “I see. I'll remember that.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I plan to fuck you again in the future.” He flexed his hips slightly, nudging deeper in her slickness. Her flesh pulsed around him again, harder this time.
She gazed beyond him at the rainwashed landscape outside the window. It was dark and lonely out there. He was warm, inviting. Morning would do just as well for her leave-taking. Convincing herself all too easily, she threaded her fingers into his hair and sought his kiss. “The very near future, I trust,” she murmured against his lips, and felt his slow, sexy smile.
They lay together again in his library and later in his bedchamber, coming together again and again until exhaustion set in. And toward morning, when his servants brought breakfast, she tipped a half-dozen drops of the liquor he kept for visitors into his cappuccino. A quarter hour later, she kissed him farewell and shut his bedchamber door, having left him inside, passed out. She sneaked to the library and entered the numbers she'd watched him use on the dial of his safe. And when she had the opal in her pocket, she sat and quickly wrote a note:
Bastian has drunk approximately one ounce of liquor from his own cabinet. I know not how it will affect him, so I have tethered him to his bed. Please come to him at once.
She started to sign it and then stared at the sheet, her pen poised above it. A tear rolled down her cheek and plopped on the letter. She had no name to give. For doing so would be a step toward rendering her mortal. So she simply blotted away all evidence of her tear, sealed the note, and then approached one of his servants with it.
“Signor Satyr has taken ill,” she told him. “Are any of his brothers here in Venice?”
“One of themâLucien,” she was informed.
“Summon him and give him this. Tell him that his brother has locked himself in his bedchamber and asks to see him.” The wide-eyed servant hurried off to deliver her missive. Bastian would be angry when he woke. Best not to be here.
She slipped out into the calm morning and hailed a passing water taxi under blue skies. When she was seated inside, she felt the comfort of the stone she'd stolen from him in her pocket. She had five now, and one of them his. She had no viable reason to ever see him again. But perhaps love was reason enough for a visit to Rome one day after her work was done. That is, if Pontifex didn't kill her before she could manage it. And if her taking the opals didn't destroy everything Bastian had built here in Italy. If it didn't render this world unsafe for his family and for all of ElseWorld kind as he believed it might. Far too many ifs.
S
cena
A
ntica
VII
389
A.D.
Rome, Italy
For three hours now, Silvia had sat upon the feather-stuffed cushion of the marble setteeâthe seat of honor, which had been specifically designated for her use tonight. Despite the raucous crowd surrounding her, she was isolated. Different. Deemed too virtuous to mingle with anyone other than elderly dignitaries.
Now that she was twenty-oneâthe halfway mark in her thirty-year service to Vestaâshe'd been requested to officiate here tonight on the occasion of the monthly Calends. What had earlier begun as a celebration of dancing, poetry, music, and feats of magic on the parts of talented performers was now devolving into a sybaritic spectacle.
Wine bubbled merrily forth from ornate fountains as readily as rain in a summer afternoon storm. Guests' fingers were greasy from a repast of olives and venison. Wives looked on with jaded eyes as their husbands pulled nubile dancers onto their laps, so that they might writhe upon them in a slow, sensuous grind. The harlequins, who'd formerly confined their magic to the pulling of doves, handkerchiefs, and fruits from behind ears, now plucked them from beneath the skirts of various ladies in the crowd, eliciting cacophonous laughter from onlookers.
However, all of this jolly sport did not entertain Silvia, for she was completely excluded from it. She did not dare relax her guard and enjoy the occasion as others did. It was unheard of for one of the Vestals to participate in such debauchery.
A Nubian slave stopped to offer her a platter with a selection of honey-drizzled melon, a soufflé, fish in leeks, and an array of raisins, olives, nuts and dates. She waved him away.
In her peripheral vision, she saw the searing light of fires being tossed high overhead. She felt dark eyes on her. Had felt them repeatedly upon her all night. Sipping her wine, she sneaked a glance at he who tormented her. The principal fire juggler. His body was muscular and sculpted and bare to the waist, his hair dark, his jaw long and square, and his coloring swarthy. She had yearned to openly gaze upon him many times but had permitted her eyes to fall upon him only intermittently.
As Silvia watched, he tossed five torches high, one after the other. He had an amazing talent for eating fire and had extinguished more than one of the flames with his own mouth, only to re-ignite them again with a puff of breath. This time, he whirled and caught each torch unerringly, to the sighs and delight of his largely feminine audience. His devilish eyes caught Silvia's on him and he winked, his grin stirring something inside her. Some need. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and looked away. Her gaze inadvertently fell on an ElseWorld Council member whose hand had wandered deep inside the clothing of a lady beside him, who was not his wife. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the sounds of copulation and she groaned under her breath. Could this get any more horrendous? A few minutes later, and to her great relief, her litter arrived and she departed for the Vestal House.
Michaela was already in their alcove when she slipped in bed beside her. “You smell of wine,” she teased, her voice slumberous.
Silvia turned her way. “Thank the Gods you're still awake.”
By the dim moonlight from their window, she saw Michaela yawn. “What's wrong?”
“I'm angry,” Silvia fumed, punching her pillow, “that's what's wrong. Pontifex and the Council trot us out to preside over every minor occasion because they are too lazy to attend themselves. And then they set temptation before us at every turn and expect us to forgo it. It's cruel.”
“Temptation?” Michaela came more awake, her eyes lighting as she curled onto her side to stare at her. “I sense a delicious story ripe for the telling.”
Silvia shrugged a shoulder. “Nothing unusual. It was the typical Calends. There was a feast, dancers, magicians, licentious politicians.”
“And?”
“And . . .” She smiled sheepishly. “. . . a fire juggler from Romania. A very handsome, tall fire juggler with dark hair and a golden complexion. And well-oiled muscles that gleamed in the lamplight.”
Michaela drew up a little higher. “Yes. More. Continue.”
“Well, he was quite . . . large. And skilled at his performance. And he seemed to watch me.” Silvia turned onto her stomach, burying her scarred cheek in the pillow. “But that can't be. My face is ruined.”
“It's a small scar, and you're beautiful,” Michaela chided. “Men stare at you far more often than you see.”
She only shrugged, not believing, and spoke into her folded arms. “I'm too restless to sleep. Perhaps I should go relieve Aemilia and tend fire in her stead.”
“No, your turn doesn't come for two days. Relax. Sleep will come.” Michaela touched the back of her shift, rubbing her hand there in a slow circle high between her shoulder blades.
Silvia murmured a soft sound of contentment and felt her edginess begin to ease. The circles gradually swooped lower to the small of her back and then lower still, over her bottom. At that, she glanced at Michaela over one shoulder, a question in her gaze. But Michaela's eyes were fixed on what she was doing. Her touch drifted lower from the terrain of fabric onto that of skin, the back of Silvia's thighs. Then it smoothed upward again in an unhurried sweep, dragging her shift higher until the fabric bunched at the small of her back and her bottom had been bared.
Silvia froze, staring down at her pillow now with wide eyes. Neither spoke for a long moment, and a palpable tension rose between them, fraught with possibilities. Then a fingertip came, drawing lightly upward along the crease that separated the ripe peach of Silvia's bottom.
She jerked away and rolled onto her side, facing her. “Michaela,” she whispered, uncertain.
Across the pillow, Michaela's eyes were pools of dark violet. “Shhh. Don't look so scared,” she whispered. Her mouth brushed Silvia's; then she drew back. “It's just touching, Via. I want you to know pleasure. It's not right that you shouldn't.”
A warm palm came on her hip, and Silvia bit her lip, unsure whether she should hold it there or tear it away.
“It's wonderful with someone who knows what he's doing,” Michaela promised. “When he puts himself inside you.” Her hand drew down under Silvia's shift, covering her belly and gliding lower to find the nest of down at the apex of her thighs. “Here.”
The hand squeezed gently, and as Michaela bestowed the gift of her preternatural warmth, a voluptuous sensation shot straight to Silvia's feminine core. Her nether lips plumped, pulsing at the surprising joy of it. She pressed her thighs tight, hugging the delicious feeling close.
She felt Michaela will her to speak, but her throat was thick with indecision, her muscles frozen. The only thing uppermost in her mind was that she absolutely did not want the glorious sensations to stop.
Silvia swallowed, hard. “I know that,” she said faintly.
“No, you don't know anything, little innocent,” Michaela said, sounding superior and half-amused.
Curiosity wound tight in her. “Is this what they teach you in your clandestine afternoon instruction?”
But Michaela only smiled that secretive smile that excluded Silvia from some wealth of knowledge that was an ever-growing wedge in their friendship. “It's wonderful, Via. You'll see. I want you to see, to feel, to know.” She scooted closer, until their bellies met, and she smoothed Silvia's hair back, pressing a closed-mouth kiss to her damaged cheek. An arm curved over her waist and a hand came to hold the round of her bottom, squeezing and sending a pleasant tremor along already quivering tissues.
“Then show me,” Silvia heard herself whisper. “I want to know what you know. I want to erase the chasm I feel widening in our experience.” She rolled onto her back, and opened her heart and her body to the loving.
Michaela did nothing for a moment save gaze down at her consideringly. Then she cupped a hand at Silvia's jaw. Studying her mouth as if it were new to her, she ran a thumb over her lips. “Then close your eyes for me, dear Via,” she said. “And think only of your handsome, swarthy fire juggler.”
She waited until Silvia's lashes drifted lower, then murmured, “Now, imagine that his dark eyes are wandering over your body, burning over it . . . over your slender thighs, your flat belly. He likes what he sees and wants to explore. But first he wants your mouth under his again. Open for him, Via.”
Soft lips angled over Silvia's, and the delicate preternatural buzz they imparted rippled over her, eventually settling in to nestle and throb within the moist cavern of her sex. Fingers tangled in her hair, holding her for the tongue that slid along hers. Silvia pulled back on a harsh inhalation, her head pressing deep into the pillow to gaze up at Michaela.
“You like his kiss.” Brows raised, Michaela waited until Silvia nodded; then she moved her hand to lie upon Silvia's shift, over her breast. She squeezed gently, moving in an almost imperceptible circular motion, slow and easy, just enough so the drag of coarse fabric tantalized first one nipple and then the other. “You want to feel him here, don't you?”
Silvia thought of the fire juggler's dark, laughing eyes and roguish wink. Her “yes” came, barely perceptible.
“Then close your eyes again, Via.” Silvia did. “And think of his wicked, scorching gaze on you. Of his dark watching eyes meeting yours across tonight's crowd at Calends. Think of him, dying to touch your flesh. Dying to lay his big, hot hands on you, running them up under your shift, pushing it higher.” Silvia felt her shift rise, as actions were suited to words. “He exposes your plump, perfect breasts to the night air just so he can watch your pale pink nipples twist and tighten in the cool. He wants to mark you with his mouth, so you'll remember him tomorrow and know it was not a dream. So he bends closer and captures what he wants.”
Silvia gasped as a hot mouth closed over the peak of her breast, suckling her gently at first, then nursing more strongly with thrilling nips of teeth, until both of her nipples stood hard and wet in the moonlight. Torturous lips blew upon them then, sending tremors of delight over her. Her moan soughed softly into the silence of the night.
“His white smile flashes, cocky. You've pleased him . . . but your Romanian . . . he's greedy. His mouth, his eyes, his bodyâthey would all make a feast of you this night. And you want him to. It's what you longed for from the moment you set eyes upon him.”
A hand slipped low, cupping her privates again. “You want his mouth here. His hot, rough breath and tongue licking fire between your thighs. You must tell him you want it. He doesn't wish to trespass where he is not wanted.”
In her mind's eye, Silvia saw the fire juggler againâhis sensuous lips and strong-boned, masculine face, his broad shoulders and powerful arms and thighs. “Yes, I want him,” she whispered.
The warmth of a body came over her then, breast meeting breast. Lips touched the base of her throat. “Good,” came a whisper. “He's glad.” The body slid lower, then lower still until Silvia's legs parted for it naturally. She felt breath rustle her soft nest of curls.
“He has thought about you all this nightâyou with your legs pressed so primly together, sealed against him. As you sat on your virginal pedestal, he wondered about you. Wondered how you would taste. He yearned for a chance to find out if only you would look his way. If only you would let him.”
The mesmerizing quality of the voice held Silvia in thrall and her fingers fisted in the sheets at her sides, every fiber of her being taut with anticipation.
A gentle fingertip came, tracing tender, blushing folds, and Silvia felt herself unfurl for it. Then came a tongue, wet and flat, licking her vulnerable, untried sex with a slow sweep of sweet fire.
Silvia sucked in a sharp breath between clenched teeth and her eyes squeezed tighter, hardly knowing what to do with the tangle of emotions that writhed in her at this new and pleasurable sensation. Her shaking hand lifted to blindly stroke over the dark head working between her thighs. Her knees rose and went wider. “A little harder,” she begged. But her lover's tongue would only work over her with those slow, sensuous sweeps. The pad of a thumb found her small, sensitive nub and sluiced it with her own honey. And still that tongue lapped at her, wooing her toward pleasure with every stroke.
When it left her, Silvia made an unintelligible sound of protest. She felt warm puffs of breath against her slickness. “Why did youâheâstop?”