Kuzan 02 - Lovestorm Page 14

  "I managed to think of a way," Yuri smirked, his pale blue eyes narrowed in pensive memory.

  "What about the time the dancers you had brought down from St. Petersburg were dancing nude in your private theater with all of us drunkenly enjoying the spectacle, when your mother and her friend stopped by unexpectedly?" Peotr Diebitsch asked facetiously. "You got hell for that embarrassment, I'll bet."

  "Oh, Maman can always be talked around," Alex drawled languidly. "She's always been a most indulgent parent. After having put up with Papa, I think nothing shocks her any longer."

  Moving to the drawing room after dinner, Amalie insinuated herself with casual familiarity between Alex and Yuri on the embroidered settee. Brushing Alex's cheek with her fingertips, she breathed intimately, "Sasha, dear, could I have more champagne?"

  He rose to do her bidding, remarking cheerfully, "Amalie, you did always have a hollow leg when it comes to champagne. Let's put a bottle here," and he slapped it on a nearby table, "so I don't have to keep getting up."

  "Thank you, Sasha," Amalie murmured softly as she kissed him in gratitude for his courtesy.

  Good God, Yuri thought. What was Alex doing? Here he had Zena, as entrancing woman as anyone could wish, and he was openly flirting with Amalie. Vividly he recalled Zena's stricken look of a moment ago when Alex had so ardently kissed Amalie. Yuri had half a mind to importune Zena for himself and teach the callous bastard a lesson. She was astonishingly lovely and had an unmitigated mischievous sparkle in her eye at times that spoke of a spirited, irreverent nature. Zena would make any man a splendid, vivacious companion, and if Alex so rudely disregarded her feelings, Yuri would be more than happy to offer her solace.

  Alex was half drunk by now, and the intimate presence of Amalie seemed familiar and natural.

  "Sasha, play for us," Peotr interjected, humming a few bars of a mournful gypsy air.

  "Oh, do, Sasha," Amalie pleaded, standing up to pull Alex to his feet. "Play 'Islamey,' please, Sasha, please," she cajoled.

  Zena saw Amalie give Alex a long, lingering look of such naked sensuality that she looked away in embarrassment. Alex returned her smoldering glance with a faint smile of understanding.

  Giving in to his friends' demands, Alex sat before the keyboard of the huge grand piano, Amalie seated at his side, her arm thrown over his shoulder.

  "Remember 'Selim's Song,' Sasha. Play 'Selim' first."

  Despite the hours of drinking, Alex's fingers glided surely over the keys, eliciting a compelling melody, redolent of tragic love and melancholy surrender. Everyone sang the poignant lyrics in voices raw with liquor and emotion.

  Zena could no longer stand the sight of Amalie draped over Alex. It was obvious they had been lovers; even their acerbic remarks indicated intimacy. They had past memories to share, common bonds of friendship and family, and Zena felt isolated and saw how tenuous and fragile her hold on Alex was. And now they were laughing, the beautiful couple, two superb creatures, ideal foils for each other, blond head against raven tresses.

  She had a sudden savage longing to kill Amalie. Zena quietly slipped from the room as the five voices rose once again in swelling harmony on the last chorus. She had tried; she had really tried to be courteous and friendly, but Alex asked too much if he wanted her to stay and watch him playfully wooing Amalie. Zena began to cry, giving in to the misery she had been holding in check for hours.

  As the chorus ended in a crashing chord, Alex looked around for Zena. "Where's Zena?" he inquired offhand.

  "She just left," Yuri replied. "She's tired, I think."

  "Damn it. I want her here," Alex insisted arrogantly.

  "Let her go," Amalie petulently declared. "Really, Sasha, she looks barely out of the schoolroom."

  With a drunken brutality Alex replied, "As you should well know, my dear lady, age is of little consequence when it comes to passion. How old were you, my sweet, when you first spread your legs?"

  A flush illuminated Amalie's face.

  "Sasha, that's enough," Yuri interposed hurriedly. "Play us another song—a gay one this time."

  Alex allowed himself to be persuaded, and soon everyone was raucously singing the rollicking chorus to "The Shepherd Loi." As the group broke into the second chorus, Yuri quietly slipped out of the room.

  He strode upstairs and down the long hall to Alex's apartment. Knocking on the door he called out softly, "It's Yuri."

  After a lengthy interval during which he was unsure his voice had been heard, the door opened and Zena's tear-stained face greeted him.

  Gathering the woebegone woman in his arms, Yuri kicked the door shut with his boot and gently guided her over to the settee in front of the fire, where they both sat down. Passing a practiced arm around her drooping shoulders, he drew her to him.

  "I'm sorry, Zena. Sasha can be a brute when he's drinking." Yuri had been watching Alex's casual treatment of Zena for weeks and felt a genuine concern for her wounded feelings. She had a poignant vulnerability noticeably lacking in the society hussies with whom he associated. If she would have accepted his affection as consolation, he would have offered it gladly, but her adoration of Sasha was too patently obvious for him to engage her feelings. He could be a friend to her, at least, but when she turned those deep blue eyes on him, he was a lost man.

  "It's all right," Zena gulped convulsively as she tried to stifle the tears. "I'll just stay upstairs until everyone's gone."

  "Is there anything I can do?" Yuri asked compassionately.

  "No, not really. I shouldn't carry on so anyway. I tell myself it's ridiculous, but. . . ." her voice trailed off wearily.

  "Do you want me to say something to Sasha? He can be damn disagreeable when he wishes, but when he's sober he can be quite obliging and kind," Yuri allowed.

  "Don't I know," Zena laughed bitterly. "So very obliging. Oh, Yuri," she wailed, as fresh tears fell. "God forgive me, I love him so."

  Holding her close, Yuri rocked her softly, administering an awkward pat now and then to her tousled hair. He let her weep her fill, and when the sobs and flood of tears abated, he carefully wiped her face dry.

  "Everything will be fine, just see," he promised rashly. "I know Alex cares about you."

  Zena's beautiful face lit up pitifully, "Do you really think so?"

  "Of course," Yuri pronounced with a certainty he was far from feeling, but Alex had kept Zena for weeks longer than anyone else. Surely that's a hopeful indication, he thought.

  "I hope you're right," Zena signed happily, and in a few minutes Yuri had cajoled the tears away with one of his outrageous anecdotes.

  Time passed swiftly as Yuri engaged to dispel the un-happiness from Zena's eyes.

  As they were both gayly laughing, Yuri's arm comfortably on the back of the settee behind Zena, a sardonic voice broke into the cheerful mirth. "What a perfectly charming scene," rasped Alex, his eyes full of wrath and astonishment. Then his voice chilled ominously. "Our usual custom of friendly sharing, Yuri, doesn't include Baroness Turku. I trust we understand each other on that score. I've warned the mademoiselle and, if I'm not mistaken, you were also apprised of my feelings on the lady's availability. She is not, you may recall, available."

  "Sasha, please," Zena pleaded. "Yuri's just being nice."

  "Pray do not insult my intelligence, mademoiselle. Allow me to know just how nice Yuri can be to a beautiful woman. I have always admired Yuri's utter lack of scruples when it comes to satisfying his physical urges. Am I too late and reduced to seconds tonight, my pet?" Alex murmured silkily.

  Zena blanched at the insult.

  "You're a fool to treat Zena this way, Sasha," Yuri exclaimed angrily. "You're blind drunk!"

  With a chill politeness that required stern restraint on his boiling temper, Alex said, "I'll thank you to mind your own business, Yuri, and kindly take your lecherous hands off my mistress. Now if you'll excuse us," Alex informed with resentment, "I'd like some private conversation with the mademoiselle."

  Ignorin
g Alex's cold indignation, Yuri spoke quietly to Zena. "If you need me," he said soberly, looking directly into her tremulous blue eyes, "just call."

  "Very touching, I'm sure," drawled Alex, looking straight through him.

  "Sasha, for God's sake! Sober up!" And then, disregarding Alex's jaundiced retort, Yuri reiterated as he left the room, "I mean it, Zena. Just call me."

  "Well, mademoiselle," Alex stood rocking a little on his heels, his eyes bright with drink, "is this how you entertain my guests? Well, one guest anyway," he sneered, slurring his words together. "Come back with me now," he ordered.

  "You'll manage without me," Zena retorted.

  "But I don't care to manage without you," he said icily. "Come downstairs at once. You're insulting my guests."

  "Insult a brazen hussy like Amalie? Impossible," Zena gave a short laugh. "I'm not coming back until that bitch stops hanging all over you," she snapped angrily.

  "Christ, is that your problem? We're just old friends. It's nothing," he brushed her remonstrances aside.

  "It may be nothing to you, but it's humiliating to me. How do you think I feel watching you kiss her in front of everyone?"

  "I've been kissing her for years. I tell you it means nothing," he repeated.

  "It means something to me," Zena whispered painfully.

  "Mademoiselle, you would do well to remember that I live my life as I choose. I answer to no one for my actions. Do you understand, mademoiselle, to no one," he snarled. Alex's face was set, and his eyes blazed furiously.

  "Don't you care even a little how I feel?" Zena asked quietly. "Don't you care?" She had to have an answer, no matter how painful.

  His golden eyes met hers unblinkingly. "I don't know," he said bluntly. It had crept up on him, this general indifference to women. Love simply had never affected him. Women were a convenience, nothing more.

  "I don't want a wife and children," Alex continued coldly. Zena was terrified and appalled by the indifference in Alex's tone.

  "Why not?" she faintly asked, wondering why she tortured herself with wanting to know.

  "I don't. I don't, that's all. What more can I say? Isn't that plain enough?" he cruelly asked.

  "Yes, very plain," she whispered softly and cast a glance at the fierce expression on the cold, handsome face. His brows were drawn together in a hard scowl, and his mouth compressed into a tight-lipped, unrelenting sneer. "Then maybe it would be best if I left and didn't bother you anymore," Zena quietly said, her pride forcing her to repeat the statement while her heart cried out a silent prayer that Alex would say no.

  "Yes, maybe that would be best," he said with a deadly politeness.

  "You can't mean it." cried Zena, stepping back with stricken eyes.

  "I never say anything I don't mean," he drawled. That drawl meant he was drunk—the only discernible signal, but one not to be ignored, as any of his close friends or household staff would attest. That softly blurred speech indicated he was dangerously drunk and quite capable of anything his devilish temper prompted. The mademoiselle, not familiar enough with the prince, was not of course attuned to the warning.

  The silence in the room was absolute. A sudden cold, sick chill struck through Zena. At that moment her world fell apart. He didn't want her. He could ask her to leave without a qualm. Damn him! Damn him for making her love him and never, never returning the affection! Had he no heart? Was he incapable of feeling love or affection? He could sleep with her, make love to her, live in the same house with her, and father her child, but he could not and did not care one scrap for her. She had been a convenience, a delightful diversion, his latest whim, but never his love, never ever remotely his love.

  She hated him at that moment, hated him passionately for sapping her independence with his exquisite touch and delightful smile. She hated him for his ability to caress her to insensibility. She hated him for the warmth of his body as he drew her close when he woke each morning. And she hated him for the hundred small ways he had insinuated himself into her heart without giving a shred of his heart to her. The fury at her dependence on this man reached crisis point, and in an uncharacteristic action she drew back her arm and slapped him across his arrogant face with all her strength. The blow was delivered with such force it jarred her momentarily, but before Alex's steely golden eyes could recover from the shock of the blow, she had whirled around and with a small cry fled sobbing from the room.

  In the bedroom Zena attempted to recover her composure as each word that had been said swirled repeatedly through her mind. No matter how many times she went over the dialogue or rearranged the statements, the meaning was unmistakably and depressingly clear. She must go. She who now was carrying Alex's child in her womb would never see him welcome a son or daughter into the world. He didn't want her, and he certainly wouldn't want her child. That fact had been made patently clear. "I do not want a wife and children" echoed dreadfully over and over in her brain.

  Hastily throwing a few clothes into a small leather satchel, Zena contemplated her future.

  Forcing her mind to practicalities, she swiftly assessed her options. She didn't have much money. Bobby'd had a relapse of fever and couldn't travel. She would go to her grandfather's village alone, and some of his warriors could return for Bobby.

  Composing herself into a reasonable semblance of normality, she washed the tears from her cheeks, smoothed her hair, drew a deep breath, and walked to the nursery to explain to her young brother that she was going to visit their grandfather and would return for him in two weeks.

  Alex was nowhere in sight, but the noisy sounds of the revelry downstairs indicated his return to the festivities.

  Bobby was bright and cheerful despite his fever and babbled in his normal fashion as Zena tried to explain where she was going. "Alex will be here to keep you company until I come back for you."

  "Papa play. Me like Papa," he cooed in his baby talk.

  "Yes, Papa will play with you sweetheart. Give me a kiss, and I'll see you in two weeks."

  The chubby arms wrapped around Zena's neck, and she fiercely hugged her dear, young brother until he began to squirm uncomfortably in her arms. Thank God, he was too young to be seriously disturbed by most of the events transpiring around him, she gratefully noted. Bobby was again absorbed in the mechanics of a new toy wagon Alex had given him that morning.

  Zena called a servant to summon the coachman, went back to her room, threw a warm cloak around her shoulders, and had a maid carry her small satchel downstairs.

  Alex had returned downstairs after their confrontation and was now recklessly drinking himself into oblivion. He just wanted to forget Zena. It was for the best. He was beginning to feel on occasion vague, indefinite emotions in regard to her, and he was in no mood to change his lifestyle. He was still young and had much living to do. He didn't want to be tied down with a wife and children.

  That fucking, sweet little piece was beginning to get under his skin; she was becoming necessary to him in ways he thought a woman could never be. She made him want her near day and night.

  It was best to break the relationship before it became unwieldy. She was becoming a nuisance, always wanting reassurances and soft words of affection; she made subtle demands on his independence. A nuisance, that's what she had become, and he was exceedingly relieved to be rid of her.

  All his angry musing, which seemed decidedly logical at the time, scarcely penetrated his alcohol-dazed understanding. But no amount of brandy could blur his ability to comprehend a perpetual constant in his life—a beautiful woman who desired him.

  "Amalie, my love, come turn the pages for me. And bring another bottle of champagne."

  The coachman drove Zena to Moscow. The drive brought her to the center of town at eight o'clock. She had traveled the miles spiritless and unseeing, sitting in dumb, silent, hideous agony that crushed belief and hope. In Zena's brain jostled a morass of endless recriminations and pointless, fruitless speculations. If I hadn't insisted on pressing the issue, if I ha
d had enough sense to simply resist the temptation of having to know if he cared. . . . You must be a masochist to insist on forcing such an idiotic question. Why, oh, why couldn't you have held your tongue and your temper, and even if he didn't care, you at least would have gone to sleep tonight in his arms. What difference if the arms are unloving arms, as long as Alex is holding you close to him? You ask too much. You ask for what he can't give, and in your insistence you lose all.

  She was numb from the loss of the man she loved. The carriage came to a stop. She was helped down, her luggage was deposited on the ground, and she assured the coachman she was perfectly fine.

  He drove away reluctantly, for the vague, distant eyes of the beautiful young mistress did not appear fine to him at all.

  After several minutes Zena noticed she was attracting attention and quickly picked up her leather bag and slowly moved in the direction of the Southern Rail depot. Nothing mattered anymore. A feeling of desolation swept over Zena. She could have turned to Yuri for help but shrank from the thought of passing from man to man. That sort of future was appalling.

  Anesthetized by the incredible depression that engulfed her, she moved dazedly through a world that couldn't touch her. If spoken to, she didn't answer; if accidentally brushed against, she didn't notice; she was to absorbed in her own grief.

  Part III

  Flight and Pursuit

  1

  Once in the dim light of dawn Alex stretched luxuriously, murmured "darling" to no one in particular, and slept on.

  The sun was high in the brilliant sky of a balmy March afternoon when Alex lazily rolled over and flung one arm around the soft body next to him. His hand swept slowly upward caressing one plump, warm breast. An uneasy presentiment nudged at his tired, dulled perception. The sensation beneath his fingertips was puzzlingly incorrect. No delicate, lean, taut body here. He dubiously levered open one eye, and the undefined confusion in his dazed brain was irrefutably clarified.