Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
‘Thanks.’ I hand them over to him.
‘The boss is on the lowest floor, minus 3. You can take the stairs.’ He jerks his head towards the stairs, ‘Or the lift down that corridor.’ He nods in the direction of the study where I met Zane the last time.
‘I’ll take the stairs,’ I say.
‘Keep going down until you reach the bottom.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
A hefty, florid-faced woman in a black skirt and white blouse passes us on her way to the kitchen. She smiles politely at me and I smile back.
I take the stairs and start walking down into the lower floors. I go past the two flights of stairs I descended the last time to go to the massage room and down the last one. It opens up to another black and white chequered landing with a plinth holding an antique headless and armless statue, and under it a large arrangement of white flowers. Beyond it is a grand set of white and black doors. I grasp the intricately carved metal handles, push them open, and gasp with surprise.
The whole floor is a fabulous open plan, mosaic-covered, steamy bathhouse held up by a forest of pillars. Steam rising from a large raised pool mists the space, making it seem magical or from a different time. A time when powerful rulers of great empires lay in similar pools and scantily clad slave girls came to wash them. I breathe in the fragrance that has been poured into the water. Jasmine. Deliciously Oriental and exotic.
I walk towards the pool and stop when I am about twenty feet away from it. Inside the marble tub capable of fitting at least ten people, Zane is lying back facing me. His powerful shoulders and arms are out of the bubbling water and resting along the edge of the tub. His skin gleams like polished metal in the humid air.
His eyes are open and he is gazing at me. There is something very relaxed about his pose, but something frighteningly alert about his eyes. I think about that time when I looked into his eyes and saw that cold, pitiless universe they held within them. I let my gaze slide away from that barren wasteland.
I don’t want to be afraid of him. He has done me a great favor. I want to show him my appreciation, my deep gratitude. I watch the ink on his body. Somehow it seems even more beautiful in this setting. I want to stand here a little while longer and simply soak in the decadent sight of this marvelous man in his luxurious pool.
‘Won’t you join me?’ His voice is silky and caressing. Still, it is clearly not an invitation, but an order.
I lean against a pillar and take my shoes off. Then I unbuckle my watch and leave it next to my shoes. Barefoot, I advance on the smooth damp marble. I stand at the edge of the pool, my blood hot and thirsty for him.
‘Is a sexual slave expected to wash her master?’ I ask softly.
He remains very still. ‘Take your clothes off.’
My heart starts pumping faster. I unzip my dress and let it slip down. I take off my bra, and though the expression on his face doesn’t change in the slightest, his eyes flash when my breasts pop out. Letting the bra fall from my hand, I hook my fingers into the waistband of my panties and pull them down my legs. He doesn’t say anything, just watches me expressionlessly as if I am an art exhibit that he is not sure he actually likes. I straighten, completely naked but for the layer of mist on my skin.
‘Thank you for finding my sister,’ I say, my voice a hoarse whisper.
His eyes gleam through the rising steam, black pupils fixed on me. ‘Good. Show me how grateful you are,’ he says.
There is a black lacquer container by the edge of the pool. It has loofahs, sponges, cloths, and soaps in it. I walk to it, pick up a cloth and a bar of soap, and go behind him. Getting on my knees I take his hand between mine and turning it palm up begin to meticulously wash his fingers. One by one. They are long and elegant, the pads firm and fleshy, the nails beautifully manicured. A pianist’s hand, full of hidden strength. Like a sleek racehorse.
He turns his head and watches me, but I don’t look at him. I keep my head bowed as I raise his hand. He smells of something wild, storm rain perhaps. With infinite gentleness I kiss the inside of his wrist, right on the tip of that cobra tattoo. His body freezes. My heart jumps sideways. My gaze flies to his face. Locks on his eyes.
Both of us are startled, me by the sudden shift in him, and him by something I cannot know. A shadow passes in his eyes. For a shocking microsecond he reminds me of a wounded animal, of the way Suzie looked at Mom and me when we went to pick her up from the animal shelter. Fear, pain, distrust, hope and a profound longing for love. But like a trick of light it is gone, and whatever scary secrets he hides remain in the dark. I am reminded of a little used word I learned a long time ago: bloodthirsty. He yanks his hand out of my grasp suddenly and curls it around my wrist in a steely grip.