He inhaled sharply, his libido responding to the provocative sound, to the full-body press, to her nipples stiffening against his chest, her thigh jammed against his dick, the scent of her punching his pheromones. For a brief moment he seriously thought about dragging her upstairs and banging her until neither one of them could move. The moment quickly passed. He rarely acted on impulse.
Carefully easing her away from his body, he smiled faintly as a collective exhalation wafted round the room and the rapt moment of breathless expectation gave way to the hum of conversation. His voice was mild when he spoke, his smile touched with levity. ‘I hope we didn’t bruise anything.’
‘Yours or mine,’ she almost said, the imprint of his sizeable dick stamped on her thigh. But she could do casual as well as he with everyone still watching them in veiled glances. ‘No, not at all. My apologies. Stiletto heels aren’t my usual footwear.’
He glanced down, then up, his smile more personal this time. ‘They look good on you. But you’d better hold on to my arm, Miss Hart. It’s a long way to the dining room. We wouldn’t want you to fall.’
Actually, it was way too long for her skittish senses because his lean hip brushed against her body with each step, his large hand covering hers as she clung to his arm – ‘Just to be safe,’ he’d said – was sending tingles to places she’d rather not receive them, considering the company and venue. And his dark, magnetic beauty this close was doing disastrous things to her breathing. You absolutely will not pant, dammit. Do not fall to pieces under the eyes of twenty Knight Enterprises employees.
Oh, God, he’d come to a stop in the doorway to the dining room and was looking at her, apparently waiting for an answer. ‘Daydreaming,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
‘I was just saying you could see the oldest merchant house in Amsterdam out that window’ – he nodded – ‘if you’d like. We’re helping with the restoration funding.’
‘I would,’ she said, to be polite.
He looked amused. ‘No you wouldn’t.’
She grimaced. ‘Was I that obvious?’
‘Don’t worry about it. I like to restore buildings.’ He smiled. ‘Most people aren’t any more fascinated with the idea than you are. Let’s find our chairs.’
The room was enormous, embellished in rococo abandon with every costly architectural flourish. Gilded panels in dove grey, mirrored alcoves to display fine sculpture and reflect the light, Versailles parquet flooring favoured by palace architects throughout Europe, a ceiling mural of mythological subjects amusing themselves by playing at love – a subject much admired in the amoral culture of the eighteenth century.
Now, pristinely restored, the reception room used for royal levees in an earlier time served a more prosaic purpose. The table set for twelve was dwarfed by the space. A row of wine glasses sparkled at each place setting, splendid bouquets of spring flowers and white tulips marched down the centre of the table, the china and silver gleamed under the light of glittering crystal chandeliers.
Dominic led her to a chair, then sat to her left at the head of the table. As the others found their places with the help of handwritten name cards slipped into gilded frames, he chatted casually with her about the usual trivialities: the weather, the traffic, the more interesting sights in Amsterdam. Inconsequential small talk that matched his bland expression. He had no intention of seducing Miss Hart under twenty rapt gazes.
Especially since the toasts began the moment everyone was seated, a certain unrestrained foolishness was predictable and he didn’t want it directed at him. One toast followed another, each as effusive, or more effusive, much of the praise directed at Kate. She blushed each time, took a sip of her champagne and blushed some more. Really, this custom was not for the shy or retiring, she decided. Although Nana would have loved it. She drank her vodka straight.
But hours later, with the level of inebriation high and the meal coming to an end, someone sang out, ‘Time to initiate Miss Hart!’
The chant was taken up by everyone except Dominic in a playful, rousing chorus.
At Kate’s questioning glance, Dominic leaned close so he could be heard above the clamour. ‘Feel free to say no. It’s a silly ritual. And as you can see, no one mentions it until they’re roaring drunk.’
‘Mentions what?’
‘A tour of Amsterdam’s red-light district.’ He lifted one brow. ‘It can be a shock.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she said on a choked breath. ‘I think I’m too sober to … er … enjoy or … ah … be comfortable—’
‘I agree.’ He stood to gain everyone’s attention. ‘Miss Hart is going to politely decline.’ Then he sat down.
‘No, no, no, no!’ Wild dissent in English and Dutch. Loudly, then very loudly.
Greta smiled at Kate across the table. ‘It’s an experience you might find interesting,’ she said, raising her voice above the crowd. ‘We’ll protect you,’ she added with a wink.
Kate turned red.
Dominic smiled at Kate. ‘Ignore them. We’re the only sober ones.’
She’d wondered at his moderate drinking at dinner. He’d not indulged much. ‘I’m afraid I’m slightly out of my depth when it comes to red-light districts. That’s what comes from being raised in a small town, although I’m sure there are small-town people who are sophisticated – sorry, I’m babbling on. Anyway, everyone’s been quite wonderful tonight.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s for me to thank you for your expertise.’ He looked up with a grimace as someone began banging the table and chanting to leave. ‘Lord, they’re bloody loud,’ he said with a sigh.
But their drunken colleagues wouldn’t be deterred, no matter how many times Kate politely refused or Dominic scowled. They wouldn’t take no for an answer. Kate was reminded of college when her friends would pile into her apartment, three sheets to the wind, and drag her off to the pub when she was trying to study. She rarely won those battles either.
Dominic could have put an end to it. Why he didn’t was unclear. Max asked him as much as they followed the crowd in its exuberant passage down Amsterdam’s red-light district.
Dominic flashed him a wry glance. ‘If I knew I’d tell you.’
‘This is pretty hard-core for her.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘I do. I vetted her. Small-town girl, studied hard, didn’t play much, made it to the big time because she was smart.’
‘What do you mean, didn’t play much?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I find it does.’
‘Jesus, Nick, are you regressing?’
‘Depends what you mean by regressing.’
‘I mean, asshole, are you looking for a semi-virgin?’
Dominic laughed. ‘There’s no such thing.’
‘She’s damn close, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Are you her defender?’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘I don’t have to.’ Max was protecting Miss Hart from the big bad wolf; it surprised him. ‘Look,’ Dominic said a moment later, ‘I’m not looking for either a unicorn or a semi-virgin because they don’t exist. She knows what she’s doing.’
‘I’m not so sure. But she’s really a nice kid, Nick. Don’t fuck with her.’
‘Even if she says yes?’
‘I’d like to say, even then, but I suppose she has a mind of her own. She’s just not in your league, Nick. So cut her some slack.’
While the state of Kate’s love life was being discussed, Kate and Greta were walking arm in arm down a brightly lit lane, busy with foot traffic. A tour guide ahead of them was leading a group of Asian couples through the area, keeping up a steady discourse for her curious audience. Groups of college kids with backpacks were everywhere, sitting on the kerbs, strolling down the street, buying weed from hustlers. Some sailors were arguing in front of what looked to be a brothel, ordinary tourists of every age and stripe wandered up and down the warren of small alleys leading off the main thoro
ughfare. Three-and four-storey buildings lined the narrow streets, and in large, neon-lit windows, women of every age, size and description were on display. Some were clothed, others were nude, and no matter where they were from, from Sweden to Angola to Holland, their services were all for sale.
Kate found the open display of women as merchandise visually shocking at first. But no one seemed to notice and she reminded herself that cultural mores differed from country to country. She understood as well that the sex trade was government-supervised, lucrative and regulated by the police. Several policemen had been stationed at the entrance to the area as affirmation of their authority. All Kate could think of was that she was a long, long way from home.
And clearly too sober.
Not that her sobriety was of any concern to her companions who suddenly veered to the right and surged in a wave towards a bright red door in a building that bore neither a lighted window, a sign nor a number.
Max quickly moved ahead to outdistance the young man in the lead as he shoved open the red door. Walking up to a well-dressed man stationed behind a desk in the large foyer, Max spoke to him briefly. The concierge/receptionist/bouncer looked more like a stockbroker than a guard, Kate thought as she and Greta entered the building. The black marble foyer looked more like an Italian palazzo than a nightclub, and the huge vase of flowers perfuming the air must have cost a small fortune.
As Max finished speaking, the elegantly dressed man glanced over everyone’s heads, and nodded at Dominic who stood in the back. Then the man waved them through black leather-padded doors that were thrown open by two uniformed employees. And they entered a room with subdued lighting, posh decor, affluent patrons and spectacularly naked women.
A beautiful woman, nude except for a navel ring, beckoned an equally nude coat-check girl to take their coats. Then she escorted them to two large black velvet banquettes set against a mirrored wall. As everyone found seats, the hostess raised a manicured finger and signalled another equally dazzling, unclad woman.
After ordering several bottles of Cristal, Max exchanged a few words with their server. As the woman left, he sat back and gave a brief nod to Dominic.
Greta, Kate, Max, Dominic, Werner and his wife sat in one banquette, the other held the noisier half of the dinner party. Dominic and Max were the last to take their seats and whether by chance or design, Dominic sat beside Kate.
It was an intimate venue with an unobtrusive bar to one side, six banquettes lining the walls, and four marble-topped tables fronting a small stage. The clientele was well-dressed and cosmopolitan, the conversation hushed. Even the rowdy members of the Knight party had instinctively quieted.
A small stage, framed in gilded pilasters and rich azure silk draperies, reminded Kate of Marie Antoinette’s little theatre at Versailles. Sofia Coppola’s movie clearly had left its mark on her. The stage set represented a richly furnished Victorian sitting room: a table set for tea, a crimson brocade chaise, a spinet and a leather padded bench, sumptuous carpets and two lace-curtained windows stage right, draped in royal blue silk.
The black velvet banquette was soft as down, the atmosphere restful, the noise level muffled. If the servers weren’t nude and if a man and woman in period costume hadn’t walked onto the stage just then, Kate would have thought she was drinking champagne in someone’s living room.
But as the little play began to unfold, she realized she was about to witness an erotic Victorian tableau.
The couple began having tea, the man, as host, explaining to the young woman that his sister had sent her regrets at the last minute. ‘I sent a message to your home, but too late, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, dear.’ The pretty blonde, dressed in white ruffled muslin, made a little O with her mouth. ‘I really shouldn’t stay.’
‘Come, Liza, we’ve been friends for years. Let me pour you a sip of sherry. It’s from Papa’s cellar.’
‘I shouldn’t.’ She flushed a rosy pink.
And so it went, the couple drinking more sherry than tea, the young lady becoming more comfortable and talkative, the man full of compliments and small courtesies. The acting was really quite good, enough so that Kate was drawn into the scene despite her reservations. She wasn’t alone in her interest. The audience was captivated.
‘I have to marry Lord Richmond, you know,’ the actress suddenly blurted out, her eyes welling up. ‘And I hate him. He’s old and ugly.’
‘And cruel.’
She clapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh, no, don’t say that! You can’t mean it?’
‘I wish it weren’t true,’ he grimly said. ‘But it is. Everyone knows.’
Her tears began to flow. ‘So I’m to be – sold off – for Richmond’s fortune,’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, Ned, what am I going to do?’ she wailed. ‘Help me!’
A theatrical silence fell. You could have heard a pin drop.
His expression solemn, he reached across the table and gave her his handkerchief. ‘You know what he’s paying for.’
She looked down. ‘I know.’
‘If you weren’t a virgin …’
‘He wouldn’t want me.’ She looked up, her eyes bright with hope. ‘How clever you are, Ned!’ Then her face fell. ‘But the contracts have all been signed. And Mama’s already counting her money.’
‘Then I’m not sure what he’ll do.’
She jumped from her chair and began pacing the room, her agitation plain. ‘The world is cruel when I can be sold off like so much chattel. It’s not fair!’ She suddenly spun around, her nostrils flaring. ‘I won’t go docilely like a lamb to the slaughter. I won’t! You hear!’ She brooded for a moment, then hotly declared, ‘Fie on Richmond and his grubby money! I shall give you my maidenhead, darling Ned.’
The young man looked startled. He wasn’t the callous seducer generally portrayed in Victorian tales. ‘You have to be sure,’ he quietly said.
‘Yes, yes, yes, yes! And darling,’ she gaily declared, ‘I’ve been wanting to kiss you for ever!’
He still looked grave. ‘This is more than kisses.’
She waltzed over to him, patently joyful, and held out her hands. ‘I know that. This will be my sweet revenge on them all.’
Rising from his chair, the handsome young man took her hands in his, raised them to his mouth, brushed her fingers with his lips and the sweetest of seductions commenced: both actors young and beautiful, their slow undressing – he helping her and she him – a languid, tantalizing production accomplished with deft show-manship. Once they were nude, he caressed her shapely form in all the ways meant to arouse, kissing her mouth, her neck, her showy breasts, her virgin cleft. When she was flushed all warm and pink, Ned eased her back onto the chaise, slid between her legs, and with an expertise admired at least by the females in the audience, brought little Liza to a rapturous orgasm.
It was clear that the actors had been cast in their roles for reasons over and above their acting skills. Ned was all magnificent male, handsome, virile and in terms of performance art, his erection was truly star quality. For her part, Lady Liza was stunning, voluptuous as Venus, and clearly of a passionate nature.
After the initial consummation, Ned was lying on the chaise, cradling Liza in his arms when, in lieu of the usual pillow talk, she casually said, ‘Abby tells me you have whips.’
He glanced down. ‘Does she now?’
Liza lifted her gaze to him and smiled. ‘She says she likes what you do with them.’
‘You’re not Abby Childers.’
Liza suddenly sat up, a little pout on her lips. ‘I might like it.’
‘No.’
‘That’s not very nice.’ A spoiled young lady acting spoiled.
‘Come, darling,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Abby Childers likes to be tortured.’
A wide-eyed look. ‘Tortured?’
‘There, you see, you don’t want that.’
She nibbled on her bottom lip for a moment. ‘You could just whip me a little.’
He softly sighed. ??
?If I do, is this conversation over?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘Very well.’ He pointed. ‘In that drawer over there. Bring me one of the whips.’
She leaped up and a moment later was back. ‘Will this one do?’ She held out a red leather quirt from which hung three knotted strands of black braided silk.
‘That one’s fine. It won’t leave marks.’
She half turned and glanced back at the bureau.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he muttered, ‘or I’ll send you home. It’s not a competition.’ Reaching out, he took the whip from her, rose from the chaise and helped her lean over the chaise so she was face down over the curved back. Then he tied her hands to the wooden legs, raising her pink bottom into a perfect target.
‘I intend to make this unpleasant.’ He lifted his arm. ‘I don’t want you to ask me to do this again. You’re not Abbey Childers.’ He brought the whip down with a crack.
A gasp went up in the crowd as the lash struck the lady’s plump flesh.
Another when she cried out. Then another and another as the young man wielded his whip and the lady shrieked and moaned. Ignoring her cries, he smacked her soft rump, the inside of her thighs, the pink pouty lips of her sex – those blows in particular eliciting little frenzied screams that soon morphed into frantic whimpers.
Was she really in pain? Kate wondered. Would he stop if she was?
Kate forced herself not to openly gasp but it was impossible to stem her feverish reaction to the lady’s punishment. She was wildly aroused, desire coiling deep in her core, spreading outwards in hard, forceful waves, spiking through her senses, making her edgy, making her skin tingle.
Her gaze on the actor’s huge, upthrust erection, she imagined it deep inside her, could almost feel it slide in and out, wanted it, needed it. Or perhaps someone else’s, the little voice inside her head whispered as Dominic Knight’s recognizable scent filled her nostrils. His physical presence beside her was like an irresistible force, like a hot brand on her consciousness. Primal male, oppressive, blatantly arousing.