Golden Paradise

He shrugged. 'I thought we were negotiating for a new venue.'

'A new venue?' Although she spoke in a whisper, the violence of her feelings was evident. 'Is that what you call rape now?'

His lashes dropped fractionally in ironic reply. 'Really, sweetheart, why all the ruffled outrage? It's not as though my wanting you will harm you in any way.'

'This spectacle-should someone walk out of the ballroom-notwithstanding!' she fiercely replied.

He sighed as though her stinging response required at least one reasonable party. 'Very well,' he said, not in explanation but in magnanimity, 'we'll move.' And lifting her into his arms, he walked with her across the terrace and down the three wide stairs to the lawn below. 'Is this better?' he inquired politely, as if the location of his assault on her were the only point in question.

Lisaveta lay rigid in his arms, refusing to touch him, and gazed around, her golden eyes incredulous. Stefan was standing at the base of the stone stairs directly in line with the ballroom door, in the middle of a great open expanse of lawn, the moon bright overhead. 'No,' she indignantly retorted, 'this is not better!' She bit off the words as if they were poison.

He turned so they faced the villa, kicking the train of her gown out of his way. 'You decide then,' he said with no more emotion than if they were discussing the merits of lavender versus yellow kid gloves as a fashion accessory.

'Why are we doing this?' Lisaveta breathed, dismay vibrating in every hushed syllable.

Stefan looked down at her for a moment and his face in shadow held a menacing quality. 'I know why I'm doing this,' he said, his intention absolutely plain in his simple declaration, 'and at the risk of further offending you, I don't really care why you are or aren't. I hope that's not too blunt.'

It was another galaxy beyond blunt. 'In that case, my decision is irrelevant,' Lisaveta quietly said.

He didn't answer because the substance of his reply was clearly understood, and he thought for a moment how powerful jealousy was. He'd never been this rude to a woman before. In fact, he prided himself on his charm with the opposite sex. But then, he'd never been barraged by such overwhelming frustration before, and the force of his emotions was driving him. He felt it unkind to liken this to war, but the simile came prominently to mind. Lisaveta was the redoubt he wanted and he intended to triumph in his assault. She was the eternal enticing female who bewitched him like Circe or Venus, and he coveted her-at Kars, on his ride to the railhead at Vladikavkaz, on his train journey north and now, here, this instant.

Moving a few feet from where he stood, he set Lisaveta on her feet within the shadow of the terrace wall and without speaking slid the lace ruffles off her shoulders, forcing the bodice of her gown downward over the fullness of her breasts until they were exposed, pale white and enticing in the moonlight.

She stood rigid beneath his hands, knowing resistance would be useless, hating him at that moment for his callous indifference but feeling also an unnerving familiarity to the touch of his hands.

Placing his palms with infinite slowness under her breasts, he lifted them high, surveying their mounded beauty. His eyes were calculating as a critic; no soft emotion shone from their blackness. When he considered all the other men who might have admired them thusly, his temper flared. He was angry and tormented, twisted with jealousy, and it showed in his stance and moody expression, in his deplorable aggression and in his words.

'What do they usually say? How lovely, Countess?' Each quiet word was hollow with aversion.

'I don't answer to you,' Lisaveta whispered, stung by the rudeness of his remark, trying for a moment to twist free until his fingers squeezed sharply and she instantly stood quiescent.

'I think we've gone over this before. The concept,' Stefan softly said, 'of physical superiority.'

'Stefan, this isn't like you.' She hesitated for a moment and then added. 'I wish you'd reconsider.'

He almost laughed. How quaint and bland a statement after he'd traveled across the expanse of Russia to do exactly this. 'I'm afraid I won't,' he said.

'I'll resist.' Her voice was flat.

'Fine.'

He didn't seem concerned and the mildness of his reply was more unnerving than his harsh anger. She knew she couldn't prevail against his strength. 'Will entreaties help?' She was appealing, her voice softly earnest, trying any measure to deter him. Any second someone could walk out on the terrace, any moment they could be seen.

He released her breasts and for a moment she thought she'd succeeded in deflecting his purpose, but he didn't even glance at her when he answered, absorbed in lifting the gathered folds of skirt out of his way. 'No,' he said, struggling momentarily with the lawn petticoat beneath the burgundy silk, 'nothing will help.' The lightweight charmeuse fabric of her gown and the fine tissue of her petticoat was crushed around her hips in swift efficiency, and without pause, single-minded with jealousy and desire, Stefan slipped his fingers between the opening in her drawers and slid them inside her.

With shame and consternation Lisaveta felt his fingers glide into her moist interior without resistance, his nearness alone rousing her passion despite all rationale; he had only to touch her and she welcomed him, insensible to her anger or logic, as if her body could anticipate the pleasure he offered and willingly, selfishly, turn liquid with wanting. Fighting the staggering impulse to sigh in satisfaction, she stood motionless under his hands, resisting with all her faculties the building waves of bewitching sensation, determined to appear unmoved.

She'd simply remain impassive, she told herself, her eyes already closing against the pulsing between her thighs; she wouldn't respond, she'd ignore the flame racing through her blood and heating her skin, bringing a flush to her face and throat and naked breasts. She'd forcibly detach herself from the languid provocation of Stefan's gently stroking fingers, from their acute, intense penetration. She'd not allow him the satisfaction of-she caught her breath as his fingers touched her deep inside and uncurbed pleasure pulsed upward.

He smiled at her response and his success and then glanced for a moment at the terrace wall above them. Had he heard voices?

He moved her back a few steps until they were in the deep shadow, partially concealed, should someone walk down the steps, by a lacy pungent juniper, its deep bluish-green black in the moonlight.

'Stefan, you're mad,' Lisaveta whispered, her back against the cool stone, her spine rigid because she, too, had heard the voices now.

'Mad for you, Countess,' he murmured, intent on unbuttoning his trousers.

Oh, Lord, Lisaveta thought, terrified and aroused and staggered by her own wanton desire. 'Wait, Stefan…' She spoke in a hushed undertone. 'Wait till they're gone… or we could go… somewhere else. Stefan, please…'

But he was lifting her already as though she hadn't spoken. Holding her with the weight of his arm immobile for a moment and bending his legs, he entered her without preliminaries, his urgency reflective of his driving need. He was unconcerned with her pleasure or displeasure, oblivious to the people above them; he wished only to assuage his turbulent passion and in so doing exorcise his tempestuous fierce craving for her. He held her securely against the granite wall in a rhythm of demand, forcing her entire weight upward with the sheer strength of his compelling hunger, all the jealousy eating away at him, exploding in each forceful stroke, all of his anger at the Countess's favored position as the reigning belle of Saint Petersburg provoking his punishing power. He would, he thought, driving in impatiently, the frustration of their separation and his lengthy journey impelling each upward thrust, rid himself once and for all of his tormenting intoxication.

'Where do you suppose they went?' a woman's voice said, drifting over their heads in the moonlight.

And buried deep inside Lisaveta, Stefan closed his eyes against the drumming ecstasy racing through his senses.

'I'd say they're in his carriage on their way back to his palace. He looked like a man in a hurry.' A knowing inflection underlay the masculine voice.

Knowing that, hearing that, feeling the full impact of that haste, Lisaveta wondered how she could be so defenseless against the pleasure Stefan provoked, immune to scandal and the presence of people a scant few feet away.

His mouth closed over hers, teasing, rousing, as if to say, 'Ignore them, let me take your mind off them, think only of seductive feeling…like that and that and that,' the rhythm of his lower body a powerful adjunct to his enticing tongue.

Wanting only to sustain the pervading rapture, to feel him more intensely, all her resistance forgotten with the throbbing splendor beating through her senses, the couple above them relegated to oblivion, Lisaveta slid her arms