Once a Princess (3 page)

She was exquisitely delicate and fine-boned, this angel of Babylon. Stefan, along with every other man in the room, was entranced, unable to take his eyes from her. Here was a dance meant to inflame the senses, yet the girl's movements were so sensually graceful, she lent it a kind of innocence. Perhaps that was for her own protection, performing before so many men as she was. It was too late to work on Stefan, however. She might be the kind of female who could drive a man crazy with warring instincts of lust and protectiveness, but right now he felt only lust.

He had wondered what kind of costume she would use—certainly not the revealing transparency of the true harem dancer, who was after all a concubine or a slave, and danced to entice a master into noticing her among so many other slaves. This was America, where women thoroughly covered all limbs; at least good women did. But this one was a whore, dancing for an all-male audience, so she would be allowed
to bare her arms at least, and a portion of her legs, and, because of the dance, a good portion of her belly. Such was not the case.

The material of her harem trousers started just below the navel, was snug across the hips and abdomen, but baggy down the legs, where they gathered tight at her ankles. The lavender material was not at all transparent, but was so thin that with certain movements it molded itself to her legs. Her top, of the same thin material, was short, though not as short as the audience would have liked, hanging down to the waistband of the trousers. The sleeves were long and full, gathered at the wrists. The top fit snugly across her firm breasts but thereafter fell loosely, so that it swayed with her body. Dotted about this costume were small silver sequins that flashed as they caught the candlelight, as well as a wide band of bangles about her hips, wrists, and ankles that clinked rhythmically with her movements, proving she was no amateur to this dance. But then that had been very obvious from the moment she glided onto the stage.

The same lavender material was used for the long veil that covered her hair to her waist, but her hair was a bit longer than the veil, and unbound, so long locks of it, as black as ebony, fell over her narrow shoulders or were flipped back as she dipped and turned. A shorter veil concealed her features, all but her eyes, which at first seemed slanted. Watching her so intently, Stefan soon realized it was the heavy kohl she'd used that gave them that effect, that and the fact that she kept her eyes lowered to avoid looking directly at the audience. Her feet were bare, but
that was the only part of her that was, other than the inch or two of navel that appeared infrequently when her chest rose during her slow undulations.

Hopefully, Vasili would be satisfied with that teasing glimpse of exposed belly, for he wouldn't see any more if Stefan could help it, not tonight anyway. But how to manage that, when Vasili had already announced his intentions? Directness seemed the easiest route, which was what he tried the moment the girl ended her dance and disappeared through a back door.

“You have gorged yourself recently, Vasili. This one you will leave to me.”

“I will?” The golden-haired man swung around in surprise. “Did you hear that, Lazar? He wants to steal the wench right out from under me.”

“Ah, but she's not under you yet, and he's right,” Lazar said in complete agreement. “You
have
gorged yourself lately. Besides, for you, any female will do, but our Stefan is much more particular in his tastes.”

“I'm willing to share.”

“I am not,” Stefan said, stressing his words with the very softness of his tone.

“So it's like that, is it?” Vasili demanded, half indignant, half amused. “Well, why didn't you say so? You're welcome to her—if she'll have you.”

It was said lightly, yet hearing Lazar suck in a horrified breath, Vasili realized the cruelty of his taunt, unintentional but there nonetheless, and he went white as a shroud. He was the most handsome among them. Women adored him because of it, and it was a typical joke in their youth that he would lord
this over the rest of them. But that was before Stefan had been disfigured trying to save his only brother from a pack of hungry wolves.

“I didn't—”

Vasili was so appalled at himself, he couldn't finish. His chair scraped back and long strides carried him out the door without a backward glance.

“He meant it only in jest,” Lazar offered hesitantly into the silence that surrounded only their table. “He would have said the same ten years ago.”

“Am I so ignorant I don't know that?”

“Jesus, Stefan,” Lazar complained. “If you weren't so touchy about it—”

“Go after him before he cuts his throat, thinking he has wounded me. Assure him my hide is much thicker than you both seem to think.”

But it wasn't. Vasili's reminder that women, beautiful women at any rate, would avoid Stefan if possible cut deep. Like most men who could afford to, Stefan enjoyed them when the mood took him, but only whores, women who had little choice in the matter once they saw the color of his gold. Yet he still sensed their reluctance, and so he did not often indulge himself in that way.

He wondered why he had forgotten that when the little houri had begun her dance. Was it just the dance, then, that had made him want to possess her so badly? Or was it only that it had been long since he'd had a woman beneath him? This one had certainly stirred something deep within him, and yet ironically, he hadn't thought the dance all that erotic.
Not that any of it mattered now, for the urge was gone.

But he had no wish to return to the hotel yet, where Vasili and Lazar would be waiting, and would realize that he had changed his mind about the girl.

He was still sitting there, broodingly watching the occupants of the room as he finished his beer, when the new barmaid came in. He wasn't sure why he noticed her. She was certainly nothing to look at, with her haggard face that was downright gaunt, with her severely drawn-back hair and mannish attire. But his eyes followed her as she picked up a tray and cleared a table that had just been vacated. Her step was jaunty, her movements brisk—too brisk for such a tired-looking woman.

Tanya noticed him right off, and had to fight the urge not to cross herself. If the devil ever came to life, he'd have eyes like that man's, aglow with yellow hellfire.

Fanciful. She must be more tired than she thought, yet she'd felt exhilarated only moments before. It had been so long since she'd had to dance, six years to be exact. She'd been afraid she would have forgotten how, but she hadn't, and why should she? For almost half a year she'd danced every night at Dobbs' insistence, after Lelia had run off with a riverboat gambler.

Lelia had been the first dancer, the one who taught Tanya. She'd come through town with a troupe of actors, had had a fight with one of them, and had decided to stay. That had been Dobbs' lucky day, for Lelia and her foreign dance had turned the tavern
around, from a business that barely paid for itself to one that made a decent profit. He finally had an attraction that could compete with the brothels and gambling dens that surrounded him. He even changed the name of the place to suit the dance. And did he ever have a fit when Lelia ran off.

But Tanya knew the dance by then, or her own special version of it, which was good enough for Dobbs, since she was all he had to keep the customers coming in. She was young, but her body was pretty much grown to what it was now, and Lelia had taught her how to use the powders and creams of the acting profession to dramatically change her looks. That was important, because Dobbs didn't want anyone knowing it was she up there on that stage, and neither did Tanya. When a few of the regulars finally figured it out, Dobbs found a girl for her to teach the dance to.

She'd been glad to quit. As much as she loved dancing, she'd hated the way the men in the audience looked at her, and their crude comments while she was performing were even worse. But until April's foot healed, she'd be dancing again, or lose the business to her next-door neighbors, which she refused to do. She had to protect what would soon be hers. And she made a vow right then that when The Seraglio was hers, she'd have extra dancers trained so she wouldn't have to expose herself to discovery again.

She shivered, knowing damn well those glowing yellow eyes were still watching her. And despite every instinct that screamed,
Don't look at him again
,
she did—and got summoned to his table with a beckoning hand.

Don't be a twithead, missy. He's not the devil, he's not
. But she'd never walked so slowly in her life as she did to that swarthy-faced, richly dressed gentleman. And then she almost erupted with giggles at her own foolishness, because two steps away from him, she saw that it had only been the candlelight reflecting in his eyes that had made them seem to glow from within. They weren't yellow at all, but a very light brown, like golden sherry wine, and beautiful, really, in such a darkly bronze face.

When she reached him, she was smiling, her relief was so great. But that was something she never did in the common room, because good humor just didn't match the haggard appearance she strived for. She was old Tanya, supposedly Dobbs' spinster daughter. However, this was a stranger, most likely from the riverboat that would be leaving in the morning, so she wasn't going to worry about one little slip.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

The smile confused Stefan, not because it was incongruous in that work-worn face, but because women rarely smiled at him, not at first anyway. They were usually overcome with embarrassment for getting caught staring in fascinated horror at his scars, which were what everyone, men included, noticed first about him now. But this barmaid had yet to even notice, or if she had…perhaps she didn't find him quite so objectionable for the simple reason that she was beyond plain-looking herself.

He was inordinately pleased by her reaction to him,
however, particularly after his previous dark thoughts, but that didn't blind him to the fact that something wasn't quite right about her, something that nagged at the back of his mind.

She had the eyes of a laughing child, bubbling with humor. Certainly they didn't suit her, nor did the fine white teeth she'd revealed, but he had unusual eyes himself and all his teeth, so he could discount that as what bothered him about her. Her gray shirt and waistcoat were manly, bulky, ugly on her, the black skirt unadorned peasant's clothing, the knife on her hip—what the devil could
she
need that for? Her hands were small, red and callused on one side, peach- and cream-tinted on the other side, a sharp contrast to the sallow complexion of her face, engraved with dark smudges of exhaustion—another sharp contrast considering the bouncy step he had first noticed.

Intuition finally stirred and he took a wild guess. “Such black eye paint is the very devil to come off, isn't it?”

At her gasp, he burst into laughter, which only increased when she swiftly tried to correct the oversight he'd hinted at by wiping vigorously at her eyes. She made sense now, in all her strangeness. On the stage, she camouflaged her face, and no wonder, for she was singularly unattractive, except for those pale green eyes and perfect white teeth. Here in the common room, however, she camouflaged her body, again no wonder, for the costume she'd worn, though for the most part loose, had still revealed an emi
nently desirable form. The girl obviously played at two roles—the dancer who whored on the side, and the barmaid who didn't want to be bothered.

“It's not funny, mister,” she said in a curt, irritated tone, glaring down at him now that she assumed she'd taken care of the smudges.

Still chuckling, Stefan asked, “Would you like me to help?”

“You mean it's still…? No, thank you,” she gritted out ungraciously.

She grabbed the bottom of her shirt this time to try again, unaware that she left him staring at a patch of smooth stomach when her belt was pulled upward with the raised shirttail. Stefan's humor fled as lust instantly returned, full-blown and prodding.

When her clothes were smoothed back into place, there were indeed faint smears of black on the material, though Stefan hadn't really seen any remaining kohl on her eyes. They were slightly puffy now, however. Even the dark shadows beneath them were lightened in color from all the rubbing she'd just done, which gave him a twinge of conscience that just upped the price he would offer for her.

“If you're finished picking out my flaws, maybe you'd like to tell me what you want now. I have other customers—”

“You.”

“What was that?”

“I want you.”

So she'd heard him right the first time! But he had to be making sport of her. She knew what she looked like. She'd spent seven years perfecting the disguise
that now only took a few minutes to effect. Her appearance was meant to put off, not attract. Yet he was darkly good-looking in a rough sort of way, like an uncut gem. He was also well-to-do, if the cut of his navy coat was any indication, fitting so snug across broad shoulders. But that combination, money and looks, made him the exact type of man she was always invisible to.

She'd thought him Spanish or Mexican at first glance because he was so dark and definitely foreign-looking, but she would recognize a Spanish accent, and that wasn't the accent she heard in his very correct English. Maybe he was a Northerner. They didn't get too many of them coming here, being too fastidious for the rough crowd The Seraglio drew. This one had lean, hawklike features, with flaring black brows, thin, straight lips, a very strong jaw that was smooth-skinned—except for the scars. They dotted his upper left cheek in half-inch, downward slashes. The same kind of marks appeared on his lower jaw, as if some animal had sunk its teeth into the man's face and started to bite the whole side of it off, but had been stopped in time.

The scars made her feel a kind of empathy with him. He'd suffered pain because of them, and she understood pain very well. But that empathy wasn't going to let her accept a joke at her own expense.