Vampire in Paradise

  “Agreed,” they all said.

  “Here’s hoping that by morning, we all have deep tans,” Vikar quipped.

  They all joined hands then, and Sigurd prayed, “Lord, help us this night to conquer evil forces. Amen.”

  As his brothers and fellow vangels scattered to their various positions, Sigurd added another prayer. “And please protect Marisa since I cannot. Don’t let her be alone with the bastard.”

  Date with a devil, or so it seemed . . .

  Marisa had managed to make it through wine cocktails (she had three) and a wonderful dinner of oysters Rockefeller, fresh flounder, baby parsleyed potatoes, and cherries jubilee (none of which she tasted for all her nervousness), and was sipping at a coffee liqueur when Harry said, “I want to show you something.”

  Marisa nodded. This was it then. She could no longer pretend she was having a friendly dinner with an older gentleman.

  He stood and extended a hand to her. “You can bring your drink with you.” He picked up his dirty martini (his fifth of the evening, by her count) in his left hand, and laced the chubby fingers of his right hand with her left. She was taller than him in her four-inch heels. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, some men liked taller women. It empowered them, or something, according to a Cosmo article she’d read one time. Something in the vein of, “See. I’m short, but I can still get me an Amazon of a woman.” Caveman Napoleon Complex, or some such thing.

  He led her out the doorway of the small salon where they’d dined and toward the sleeping quarters. He’d given her a tour of the sumptuous yacht when she first arrived, boasting that it had cost a cool five million dollars (disgusting, really, when you considered how little she needed for something so important, and he frittered away millions on his toys), but he hadn’t shown her any of the ten staterooms. Yet.

  She was being too hard on the man. Really, she was, and she had to stop if she was to get through this night. Harry had been a polite and charming date, thus far, she had to give him credit for that. Other than kissing her cheek initially and touching her bare arm or nape on occasion, she couldn’t criticize him for being overly familiar, let alone jumping her bones, as she’d expected.

  In fact, he’d spent most of the time telling her about growing up in a Newark, New Jersey, housing project, and how he’d built his fortune one job at a time from age fifteen when he’d dropped out of school. She suspected a bit of larceny from the get-go, from what he insinuated unapologetically. He’d also told her he had a wife of thirty years, estranged, of course, and two grown children, who were also estranged. She didn’t ask for details, and he didn’t offer them. But, bottom line, she would have to add adultery to prostitution . . . for her sins, as Sigurd would say.

  She probably smelled like a bloody lemon by now, despite Sigurd’s removing her sin taint. Harry certainly did. Even over his heavy dousing of Aramis, the scent of lemons was strong on him. It must mean he was a particularly bad sinner, or about to be. Like her. Funny, she’d never noticed that lemon phenomenon until Sigurd pointed it out to her.

  No, no, no, she was not going to think about Sigurd now. The prick! The baby-killing prick! She had to put him out of her mind or she would never survive this night.

  More important, as to Harry, the man had asked about Izzie, her condition, her prospects for getting better, what needed to be done. Without the words actually being spoken, he knew that Marisa was there because she needed money. A lot of money.

  The whole time, his staff had been very discreet, almost invisible. As soon as they served a dish, they disappeared. Even now, as Harry led her down the teak-paneled hallways to what she presumed would be his stateroom, there wasn’t a person in sight. That she could see, anyway.

  He released her hand to open the double doors of his stateroom, a large bedroom and sitting room suite, and stood back smiling at her as she entered. “What do you think, my dear?”

  What she thought was that she’d landed in crazy land.

  She had expected a large, Playboy-style bedroom, complete with satin sheets and overhead mirrors, and this enormous suite had that in spades. What she hadn’t expected was all the framed posters of Sophia Loren movies that covered all the walls. Arranged on chairs underneath some of them and hanging in the open closet were replicas of the costumes Sophia had worn in each of those flicks, everything from a sophisticated sheath to a sexy white sundress to a skimpy bathing suit to a transparent negligee that left nothing to the imagination. There were El Cid; Houseboat; Desire Under the Elms; Man of La Mancha; Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow; Two Women; The Black Orchid; It Started in Naples; Arabesque; Legend of the Lost. Each with its own ensemble, complete with shoes, hosiery, and jewelry. Even wigs on faceless heads sat on the closet shelf.

  “What do I think?” she finally responded. “I think you have a thing for Sophia Loren.”

  “I do. I told you that before, as I recall. In fact, you could even say it is an obsession of mine. My wife certainly thinks so.” His face, gentle and kind so far, turned hard. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I just . . . don’t understand.” She chugged down the last of her after-dinner drink and set the stemmed glass on a dresser.

  He’d already put his martini on a bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. He patted the mattress next to him, indicating she should sit, too, which she did, with even more foreboding than she’d felt all evening.

  His face softened then, but only a little. “Here’s the deal, and, yes, I know that you need a large amount of cash, so we must deal. I will pay for your daughter’s operation, and in return you . . .” He shrugged, glancing about the room.

  I’m afraid to ask. “And I . . . ?” she prodded.

  “Will be my Sophia Loren.”

  Oh boy! Nuttier than a fruitcake.

  “Every night, you will wear a different outfit, and you will be my Anna Cabot, Cinzia Zaccardi, Filumena Marturano, Natascha, Cleopatra, Rose Bianco, Dulcinea . . .”

  One flew over this cuckoo’s nest, for sure. “But . . .” She stood and walked around the large bedroom and sitting area, quickly counting. “There are twenty posters from twenty different movies.”

  He laughed, and it was not a nice laugh. “You thought I would pay seventy thousand dollars for one night with you? No offense, darling, but even Sophia Loren herself would not be worth that much.”

  “Of course I didn’t think that, but I can’t be away from my daughter for twenty nights, especially during this time of her operation nine days from now.” In fact, once he gave her the money, she intended to leave the island, possibly as soon as tomorrow.

  “Let your mother go with her. You want the money, those are the conditions.” He scooched himself up onto the bed so that his head was propped against the pillowed headboard and his short legs extended and crossed at the ankles.

  Would he consider an IOU? Probably not.

  She hated him in that moment for the power he held over her. And for the evil that seemed to ooze out of him along with the lemon scent. Frozen in place at the foot of the bed, she said, “I still don’t understand. This conference will be over in a few days.”

  “You will travel with me until the terms of our contract are concluded.”

  In public? Everyone would know? This is a nightmare, an absolute nightmare. “Contract?”

  “Verbal. I would not sign anything that could be used against me in the future.”

  Of course he wouldn’t. “How long? How long would you expect me to stay with you?”

  “One month.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t do that. Sorry. It’s just too long an absence from my daughter.”

  “Two weeks then. Twenty-four/seven. Whatever I want, whenever I want.”

  A trophy mistress on his arm in public, a trophy sex slave in his bed.

  She couldn’t speak over the lump in her throat, but she nodded.

  “However, I’m not doing anything until the money is in the hands of the cli
nic in Switzerland. I know that sounds crass, but I have to be hard for my daughter.”

  His face went stone hard and downright mean. “You are in no position to dictate.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s my daughter’s life at stake here. I have to be firm on that, at least.”

  His hands fisted and unfisted at his sides before he agreed. “The money will be transferred in the morning. In the meantime, take down your hair. And do not wear it up like that again. Style it like Sophia did in most of her movies.”

  She nodded. “I can’t take my hair down tonight, though. I put it up wet. If I unpin it now, it will be just a flat mess.”

  He was about to protest, then seemed to take her word for it. “At least show me the goods.”

  No more Mr. Nice Guy, apparently.

  But then, two could play that game. “Show you the goods, huh? How about, show me the money. Bottom line: No money, no sex.”

  If he had been standing, he would have struck her, she could tell. This was becoming a more and more impossible situation. How do I get myself in these messes? How can I get out? Do I want to get out? No, I want the money. I need the money. Oh Lord!

  “Lose the dress, honey. Slowly. Give me something.”

  She could do that.

  Turning, she gave him a good look at the low back cleavage on her dress as she walked to the stereo system built into a wall unit and pressed play. Immediately, Frank Sinatra began crooning something about strangers in the night. For sure! This night was getting stranger by the minute.

  She undid the side zipper on the dress and looked at him over her one shoulder, about to shrug out of the tight sheath, when the bedside phone rang shrilly. With a grunt of disgust, he grabbed for it and yelled into the receiver, “What? Didn’t I tell you not to disturb me? What? From Brazil? When? Where are they now? Oh shit!” He got up from the bed and told her, “Stay right here.”

  “Maybe I should come back tomorrow.”

  “No! I’ll be right back.”

  “But—”

  “This is an urgent matter. A . . . shipment . . . that arrived earlier than expected. Turn on the television, or take a little nap,” he suggested, coming over and giving her a short kiss on the lips, followed by a run of his palm over her rump. He grinned lasciviously. “Maybe masturbate a little to get yourself in the mood.”

  What? No way! “I told you, there will be no sex tonight.”

  “There’s sex, and then there’s sex,” he said ominously, and was gone.

  “Now what do I do?” she murmured to herself, turning.

  “Get your sweet arse out of here as fast as possible,” said a blond-haired, blue-eyed man standing near the open door of the bathroom. It was Sigurd’s friend . . . fellow vangel . . . whatever. Svein.

  “Oh my God! You scared me. How did you get in here?”

  He arched his brows as if to say that she knew the answer to that question.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Sigurd ordered me to protect you.”

  “He has no right—”

  “Michael has forbidden him to go near you, forbidden fruit and all that,” he informed her with amusement, “so he sent me in his stead. He thinks you are in the restaurant, by the way. I think his head may very well explode once he finds out you are out on a boat alone with Goldman. You’re supposed to be under Sigurd’s shield.”

  “I don’t need protection and I sure as hell don’t need Sigurd’s frickin’ shield.”

  “Hah! I have ne’er seen a woman in more need of protection. Did you know that everything in this room is being filmed and recorded? Every lascivious act you engage in will no doubt be on the Internet one day, or for sale in some video venue.”

  “I haven’t done anything lascivious.” Yet. She glanced around quickly to see if she could recognize a hiding place for a hidden camera. She couldn’t, of course.

  “Not to worry. I have disengaged them. But you must be more careful of your virtue, m’lady.”

  “This is the craziest night of my life.”

  “And it is not yet over.”

  She rezipped her dress and straightened the shoulders. “I have to leave a message for Harry.”

  “Even knowing what a devious fellow he is?”

  She didn’t bother to answer, just pulled out a drawer of the desk to get some stationery. She wrote a short note telling Harry that she’d gone home, knowing he was busy, and for him to call her in the morning. “I’m taking the Anna Cabot outfit with me for tomorrow night,” she told him.

  Then she gave her full attention to Svein, who was waiting impatiently for her to finish. He glanced meaningfully at the dress and heels she carried with her, but she didn’t bother to explain.

  “Well?” she snapped. “Protect away.”

  He laughed and opened the door, looking this way and that before motioning for her to follow him. He put a forefinger to his lips, cautioning silence. “I have a boat waiting up ahead. Can you crawl down a ladder in those shoes?” he whispered.

  “Needs must,” she replied, also in a whisper.

  Just before they turned a corner, Svein put up a halting hand.

  Harry was standing arguing with a man who looked Mexican and spoke with a Hispanic accent. Something about “blonde ones” and “more money” and “too much trouble.”

  Svein grabbed her hand and led her back the way they’d come, then across the ship and along a circuitous route so that they were back on the original side of the vessel but on the other side of Harry and his still arguing companion.

  “What was that about?” she asked once they were in the motorboat, which Svein was rowing until they got far enough away not to be heard.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  It could have been no more than an hour later, but seemed like days, when Marisa was back in the bungalow. There was a big conference party tonight, and her roommates were absent. Thank God! She had a lot of thinking to do.

  Although she hadn’t done the deed with Harry tonight, she still felt dirty. A good scalding shower and a loofa sponge would do the trick, but she was so exhausted physically and mentally that she just dropped down onto the bed, fully clothed, without removing her makeup, something she never did.

  Oh well. Tomorrow is another day, Scarlett, she told herself. Too bad there is no Rhett on the horizon to come save me, or Izzie.

  Chapter 19

  Work, work, work! . . .

  Sodom and Gomorrah had nothing on this. In fact, this was Sodom and Gomorrah. The Grand Keys Island S&G Party, to be more specific.

  Despite the FOE organizers’ attempt to change the image of pornography, there was no subtlety in this event. Sigurd suspected that what had started out as a “cute” idea proposed by Vanderfelt and his cohorts had snowballed into “grotesque,” thanks in part to the influence of the Lucies. Of course, “grotesque” was in the eyes of the beholder, and his eyes, personally, were wide with shock. And it took a lot to shock a Viking.

  Sigurd had witnessed decadence in all its formats throughout the centuries, including Caligua’s famed orgies, and this shindig ran a close second. The hotel fair reeked with sex, alcohol, drugs, and in some cases unspeakable perversions. After spending hours working to save sinners and destroy Lucies, discreetly so as not to alert Jasper to their presence, in the corridors and private rooms of the hotel, he and Vikar were now standing in a darkened corner of the large ballroom, taking a brief rest before the heavy business of the evening would commence.

  They were both dressed in black denim pants and shirts, covered with long black cloaks to hide their weaponry. In this strange crowd, no one gave them a second look, not for their attire, anyway. They had been propositioned, however. By women and men. Multiple times.

  It was almost one a.m., and a live band still performed, providing a loud, pounding beat of music with provocative lyrics. One particular song kept repeating a refrain about wanting to do bad things to a woman. Very appropriate to the scene before them.

  Na
ked and half-naked men and women were dancing in lewd movements simulating copulation. Some of them were Lucies.

  Vikar turned his head this way and that, trying to figure what one writhing female was doing in the name of dance.

  “It’s called twerking,” Sigurd told him.

  “Huh?” Vikar shook his head at Sigurd. “You have been hanging around with Armod too much.”

  Three bars offered drinks and other illicit substances. On the sides of the ballroom, on extra-large pillows provided as decorative seating, actual copulation was taking place, sometimes with multiple partners.

  “I did that one time in the midst of alehead madness,” Sigurd confessed.

  Vikar glanced at him with surprise. “Really, Sigurd? You? Ivak, I would not be surprised at, but you?”

  Sigurd shrugged. “As I recall, it was an unsatisfying experience. I do not see the pleasure to be gained in sharing the swiving.”

  There was even a dungeon-like booth where people were whipping each other. Some women were so drunk or drugged out they had to be held up by their partners. Sex toys were offered for sale, along with every type of condom imaginable, at a booth in a far corner. A man worth his testosterone would want a talking condom? Skin piercings were being done in another booth, mostly in intimate places.

  “Ouch! Did you see that?” Vikar was staring at a young man who was having an industrial-size bolt implanted through his balls. “Why would any man submit to such?”

  “Ivak told me one time that it supposedly enhances the swiving, for the woman.”

  “Ivak is a fool,” Vikar concluded. “Am I getting so old that I am shocked by this? Am I turning into an angelic prude?”

  Sigurd laughed. “No chance of that. But, yes, you are old. All of us vangels are.”

  Vikar jabbed him in the upper arm with a fist. “Vikings love a good party. Many an ale-flowing feast have we both attended where the bed furs shook, but I find this rather disgusting.”