Anew: Book One: Awakened (2 page)

Amelia

A
n arcade divided by
columns set at regular intervals runs the length of the wing and gives access
to a series of large spaces beyond. Passing one, I catch sight of racks of
heavy weights, punching bags, and what appears to be a full-sized boxing ring.
Nearby I glimpse water glistening in an indoor pool and look away, suddenly
uneasy. A little farther on is the entrance to what could be a spa and beyond
that…

I stop and stare. Chrystal chandeliers hang from a high,
coffered ceiling. Gilded mirrors line a wall facing out toward the columned
gallery beside the gardens. Along one section of the mirrors is a barre,
waiting for the hand of a dancer performing the traditional practice exercises
of classical ballet.

The sheer, unbridled luxury of my surroundings begins to
sink in. I look at the man beside me.

“Is this your home?” I ask.

“One of them,” he says matter-of-factly. “Yours as well, at
least for now.”

I wonder what my presence is conditioned on but do not
pursue that. Instead, I ask, “Have I been here before?”

“No…” I think he intends to tell me more but either I am
wrong or he changes his mind. Instead, he says, “I’d like you to join me for dinner.”

He glances down at the simple shift I’m wearing and for a
moment I am painfully aware that I am naked underneath it. He looks away
suddenly as I hear the sharp inhalation of his breath.

“You’ll want to change, of course. I’ll show you to your
room.”

I can’t help but notice that he doesn’t invite me to dinner
so much as inform me of his wish that I be there. Perhaps that’s what living in
a palazzo--
one
of his homes--does to a person. Or perhaps it’s people
like him who come to live in palazzos.

Briefly, I entertain the fantastical notion that he is a
prince of sorts. That would fit with his surroundings as well as his manner. I
am tempted to ask him but before I can we step into a two-story entry hall with
floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the sweeping expanse of lawns and
trees at the front of the palazzo. To either side, I glimpse a graciously
appointed living area and a formal dining room.

There are other rooms beyond those but I have no chance to
discover them as Ian, having released my hand, guides me with a touch at the
small of my back toward a massive staircase that curves upward.

That small point of contact pressing lightly at the base of
my spine has a disproportionate effect. Warmth spools from it toward the apex
of my thighs. Deliberately, I move ahead enough to separate us.

“The private living quarters are on this floor,” he says
when we reach the top. Do I imagine that his voice has become huskier?

We walk a short distance down a lushly carpeted hallway with
a half-wall that overlooks the entry below until we come to the entrance to a
room. Ian opens double doors set with inlays of rosewood, mahogany, and walnut
in the fan shape of seashells. He stands aside to let me enter.

“I think you’ll find everything you need. But if you like,
one of the maids can come up to help you.”

Of course, there would be staff somewhere in the vast house.
Discreet staff able to make themselves invisible until needed.

I am not remotely ready to deal with any of them.“Thank you
but I can manage.”

Stepping over the threshold, I freeze in surprise. The room
is large and gracious with high doors leading out onto a balcony, walls pleated
in golden silk and a frescoed ceiling. But all I can really see is the bed. It
is immense, not so much a piece of furniture as a structure that dominates its
surroundings.

At each of its four corners, Corinthian columns rise to a
domed and gilded canopy that must be fifteen feet high and looks uncannily like
a crown meant to be set on the head of an empress. The canopy and columns are
lavishly covered in gold ormolu and glazed vermilion. Vermilion velvet and silk
hangings shot through with gold fall gracefully from tasseled valences heavily
embroidered in gilt thread. Between those hangings, I glimpse a covering of
white and gold silk draped over what looks like an altar for sacrifice to the
goddess of love whose temple this must surely be.

As though he can hear my thoughts, Ian says, “I’m told the
bed is quite comfortable.” He sounds amused but when I turn to look at him, his
eyes glitter with fire that threatens to burn me.

“You don’t--?”

“Sleep in this room?” He shakes his head. “No, I don’t.”

Yet. He doesn’t say that but I conjure it all the same in my
mind. The thought is as once alarming and alluring. On the cusp of it, I notice
that he hasn’t followed me into the room but is still standing in the hallway.
Moreover, he seems in a hurry to leave.

“An hour then,” he says. “In the gallery. Will you be able
to find your way?”

Suddenly anxious for the privacy I need if I am to have any
hope of recovering my composure, I recite the route. “Down the stairs, along
the arcade, out the door near the gym.”

My confidence that I can function on my own clearly
surprises him but he nods. “I’ll see you there.”

When he is gone, I close the bedroom doors behind him and
rest my forehead against them as I struggle to ignore the tremors running
through me. I have no idea why I am in the palazzo or where I was before the
moment I opened my eyes. Beyond what my host, if that is the proper term for
him, tells me is my name, I know nothing of my own identity.

Nonetheless, I am fully aware of at least one unavoidable
truth. The strange docility I feel is not natural. I have to free myself from
it but how?

Lacking an answer, I walk farther into the room until I am
standing at the foot of the bed. I try to imagine myself sleeping in it and
fail but… Without warning, my mind flashes through a series of images that can
only be described as lurid--entwined limbs, intimate caresses, pleasures given
and received. I gasp at what such knowledge implies about the past I cannot
remember.

Turning away quickly, I find myself staring into a large
gilded mirror opposite the bed that reflects both its golden image and the
woman standing at its foot.

She appears to be in her very early twenties, slightly above
medium height and slender with chestnut hair that falls below her shoulders.
Her features are delicate, the jaw softly rounded and the nose tapered and
narrow. In contrast, her mouth is full, even lush. Her eyes dominate the
perfect oval of her face. Large and thickly fringed, they are a startling shade
of aquamarine.

She is, I suppose, beautiful but her appearance alone tells
me nothing about myself. Still, I persevere. The shift comes off over my head
and is tossed onto the floor. Naked, I stare into the mirror at high, firm
breasts that look a little large for my overall size, tipped with pale pink
aureoles and raspberry hued nipples. Below them is a slim, tucked in waist that
flares into slender hips above well toned thighs. In the space between them, I
can see the cleft of my sex. From it rises a narrow chestnut strip that is the
only hair I have below my head. My arms and legs are slim, my back long and
narrow, dipping into the rounded curve of my bottom.

Moving closer to the mirror, I stare at myself intently,
turning and twisting as I do. Nothing I can see gives me any idea of why I
can’t remember who I am or how I came to be here. No visible injury or scar
hints at a trauma that could explain my loss of memory.

The closer I look, the more I realize that my skin is
completely unmarred. No blemish of any kind interrupts its polished alabaster
smoothness.

How can this be? Did I never fall as a child, never skin a
knee or elbow? Never get a nick or a freckle? Never acquire even the most
modest evidence of having lived?

My skin chills suddenly as a wave of nausea moves through
me. Something is wrong but I am not at all sure that I am ready to know what it
is. Perhaps Ian is right to put off answering my questions until tomorrow but
whether he is or not, time is passing. He’s expecting me in the gallery before
much longer.

Quickly, I explore the rest of what turns out to be a suite
including a pretty sitting room with a fireplace and a couch that looks perfect
for curling up on to read. A walnut-paneled dressing room fitted with drawers
and closets appears at a quick glance to hold more clothes and accessories than
a person could wear in a lifetime. Nearby there is a vermilion and ivory marble
bathroom.

Bypassing the sunken tub, I open the glass door to a large
shower. The moment I do so, hot water scented with jasmine gushes from
half-a-dozen strategically placed jets. I step under them and groan softly as
muscles I hadn’t realized were knotted begin to unclench. I have washed over
every inch of myself before I realize that none of this is strange to me.

I understand how everything works as well as the use of the
various soaps, oils, and lotions. When I turn off the water, I expect the warm
caress of air jets drying my hair and body. Bereft though I am of both identity
and memory, I nonetheless appear equipped to function in the world where I find
myself.

What else do I know and how do I know it? I’m still
pondering that as I stand before the bathroom mirror and quickly braid my hair,
then coil it around my head, securing it at the back with golden pins that I
find in a bowl on the marble counter. The result is a gleaming, silken diadem
from which a few soft tendrils escape. I can’t explain how I know to fix my
hair this way but just then I don’t particularly care.

Mindful that time is passing, and that I don’t want Ian to
come looking for me, I pull lingerie from a drawer in the dressing room and put
it on quickly.

The gown I choose looks plain enough on the hanger but when
I zip it up and glance in the dressing room mirror, I see how misleading that
is. The rich velvet is the exact shade of my eyes and seems to accentuate every
curve of my body. The neckline rises high in the back to skim the nape of my
neck but leaves my shoulders and the curve of my upper arms entirely bare while
exposing the swell of my breasts emphasized by the demi-cup bra. The sleeves
are long and so snugly fit that they feel binding. When I turn, the skirt flares
before falling back into place with a soft murmur along my hips and thighs.

I hesitate, thinking that I should change but a quick look
through the several dozen other gowns convinces me that nothing is more modest
than what I already have on.

I’m still debating what to do when my stomach rumbles. I am
startled to realize that I’m hungry. That decides the matter. I strap on heels
and leave the room.

Retracing my steps, I hurry down the curving staircase,
holding my long skirt up a few inches so that it flows behind me as I pass
through the palazzo’s central hall and along the arcade. There I force myself
to slow before I step out onto the gallery.

While I showered and dressed, night has fallen. The last
vestiges of the sunset tint the west in shades of purple and lavender but
elsewhere the sky is filling with stars. The view is stunning but it can’t hold
my attention once I see the man seated nearby at a small circular table
graciously set for two.

Catching sight of me, Ian rises. As he does so, he smoothes
a hand down the length of the pewter silk tie he wears, slightly lighter than
the dark charcoal gray suit he has changed into.

Earlier, in a black T-shirt and jeans, he looked formidable.
This Ian still does but he is also elegant, commanding, and I sense, even more
dangerous to my equilibrium than I have realized.

His gaze is so intent that for a moment I cannot move. Only
with the greatest effort do I manage to collect myself enough to cross the
remaining distance between us.

My head is up and I have even found a smile but that falters
as I draw closer and see for the first time the full extent of the dark,
surging passion behind eyes that glitter with the hard sheen of amber.

On the gallery lit by tall torchères raised on wrought iron
tripods, I have the sudden, inescapable impression that whatever else is on the
menu this night, I’m his choice for dessert.

Ian

M
y
hands are shaking. How is that even possible? No woman gets to me like this.
None. Except apparently
her
.

It’s my own fault. I should have
listened more carefully to what they had to say at the Institute but I was so
damned shocked and angry. A year since Susannah’s death, a year of genuinely
mourning and missing her, and then a single call flips my world upside down.

Damn them, damn
her
,
damn… No, I can’t damn Susannah, not even now. Whatever she did, she would have
believed that it was for the best. The problem is
her
, Amelia. She’s not
what I expected, not remotely. She’s warm, vibrant, gorgeous as hell and so
exquisitely vulnerable.

I’m a total bastard. Watching
her coming along the gallery in a gown that matches her remarkable eyes and
looks about to slip off her body, the most lurid fantasies start looping in my
head. I only just managed to walk away from her an hour ago and now I’m
supposed to get through dinner pretending that I don’t want to lay her across
the table and fuck her until we’re both senseless?

I stand with some difficulty and
hold out her chair. “Good evening, Amelia. You look lovely.” I sound so
civilized that I almost laugh. If she had any idea what I’m really thinking--

Her smile, which had begun to falter,
returns. She sits down gracefully. I catch a whiff of her scent--jasmine and
something else that’s pure Amelia--before I resume my seat.

Dropping my napkin strategically
into my lap, I ask, “Did you find everything you need?”

“I did, thank you.” Her voice is
soft, melodious, the kind of voice that begs a man to lean in closer.

It’s having just that effect on
me when Hodgkin appears, wine bottle in hand. Glad of the reprieve, I sit back
and give him a nod to pour. Amelia glances up as he does so. Her smile
acknowledging him is spontaneous and genuine. He returns it and flashes me a
quick look that speaks volumes starting with “She’s really something.” And
going straight through to “You’re a better man than this.”

We’ll see.

“This is Hodgkin,” I tell her.
“If you need anything and I’m not around, he’ll do his best to get it for you.”
Assuming I’ve approved it ahead of time but I don’t see any reason to spell
that out, not yet.

This earns me another breathy
‘thank you’. I’m wondering how many I can collect and what I’ll cash them in
for when, without any warning, she says, “There’s something I need to ask you.”

“What’s that?” I don’t quite
manage to conceal my surprise. She’s more assertive than I expected.

“Have I been drugged?”

“What? No, of course not! Why
would you even wonder that?”

Aside from the fact that I have
very strong views against drugs, the idea that I would want her to be subdued
by anything other than me is absurd.

“When I woke up and realized
that I have no idea who I am,” she says, “I was afraid, even panicky. I think
that was an understandable reaction but it didn’t last. Instead, I felt removed
from my own emotions, as though insulated from them in some strange way. And
then, once you appeared, it got worse. I seemed to have no will of my own.”

She tilts her head slightly and
shoots me a look that spears straight to my groin. “With all that I don’t know
about myself, I’m still certain that being so compliant isn’t natural for me.”

Hodgkin is back in time to hear
this. He chokes down a laugh as he sets the appetizers in front of us.

In what I hope is a neutral
tone, I inquire, “You don’t feel that way now?”

“A little still but I’m
determined to fight it. I don’t like being helpless. If drugs weren’t the
cause, what was?”

Carefully, more mindful than
ever that I don’t understand what I’m dealing with, I say, “It’s probably just
a result of the conditioning you were given to prepare you before you awoke.
Don’t worry about it.”

She stares at me in silence for
a moment, then picks up a fork, spears a small, round scallop glistening with
beurre blanc sauce and lifts it toward her full, soft mouth. I’m watching its
progress so closely that I almost miss her next question.

“Conditioning by whom?”

“The people who were taking care
of you.”

Belatedly, I realize that she’s
brought me to the verge of the discussion that I’ve already said is to be
postponed until tomorrow for her own good. I don’t assume that she’s trying to
manipulate me. Surely she isn’t capable of that? But the sooner she understands
the futility of any such effort, the better.

“That’s all I’ll say on the
subject for now. You’ll get a decent night’s sleep, your mind will be clearer,
and then we’ll talk. Understand?”

This isn’t negotiable. Now that
I’m face-to-face with her, the Institute’s recommendations that I did manage to
glean make more sense than ever. Don’t overburden her with too much information
too quickly. Make the first day about coming to terms with her newly awakened
senses and her surroundings. Above all, establish authority.

That last part should be easy
for me so why am I having so much trouble with it?

She slides the scallop into her
mouth, chews delicately, and swallows. A silken drop of the sauce clings to her
lower lip.

In that soft, breathy voice, she
says, “Perfectly.” A little dap of her napkin and she adds, “Since you aren’t
willing to talk about me, let’s talk about you. Who are you?”

“I told you, my name is Ian--”

“Ian Slade. That really doesn’t
tell me anything. Who
are
you?”

I stare at her cautiously. She’s
managed to take me by surprise--again. People know who I am or at least they
think they do and that’s good enough. Susannah got closer than anyone else but
she never had any illusions that she’d seen anything beyond what I allowed.

“I’m the founder and head of
Slade Enterprises, a defense technology company.”

“Is that the source of your
wealth?”

“Why do you think I’m wealthy?”

She makes a small gesture that
encompasses the gallery, the garden, the totality of our surroundings. “
One
of your homes? The Medici didn’t live like this.”

Despite myself, I smile. Not
many people are willing to spar with me verbally or in any other way. “Point
taken. The truth is I was born into an affluent family and I’ve made it more
so. It’s not an unusual story.”

The actual truth is more
complicated, having to do with being born the scion of one of the wealthiest
families on the planet and deciding that I didn’t want anything to do with the
princely role that I’d been cast into by birth and fate. But I don’t talk about
that, not with anyone.

Amelia nods. “Wealth begets
wealth. I understand that but how did you get involved in defense technology,
or was that your family’s business?”

I give her the standard company
bio. “When I was eighteen, I enlisted in the military. I spent five years in
the Special Forces. By the time I got out, I’d developed some ideas for
improving defense tech. I used my family’s global media company for seed money
and went on from there.”

For a moment, I think she will
ask why at eighteen I rejected the standard path laid out for the children of
elite families and didn’t attend one of the select schools intended to prepare
us for our pre-ordained roles as masters of the universe. If she does go there,
she’ll find out quickly just how hard I can shut down a line of inquiry when I
choose to.

But instead, she asks, “You
liquidated your family’s company? Wasn’t that taking a big chance?”

Most people thought I was insane
at the time but that isn’t worth mentioning.

“It paid off,” I say. “Slade
Enterprises is pre-eminent in the global market. We have complete penetration
into every aspect of security and defense worldwide.”

I watch with amusement as my
choice of words prompts a blush that spreads across her lovely features. She
really is remarkably beautiful but I wouldn’t have expected anything less.

“Of course,” I add, “some claim
that we’re more oriented toward offense than defense but that’s just
semantics.”

She raises a finely tapered
brow. “Is it? Clauswitz said that war is nothing more than an extension of
diplomacy. Are you saying that it’s nothing more than a variant of defense?”

My mouth drops open. I snap it
shut as I contemplate her familiarity with the 19
^th
century Prussian
general and military theorist whose insights into the nature of war helped
shape my own.

“It can be seen that way,” I say
as I try to remember if Susannah ever expressed the slightest interest in
Clauswitz or any aspect of war theory for that matter but I’m coming up blank.
“How is it that you’re familiar with his work?”

Softly, with a thread of
frustration, she says, “I can’t explain how I know anything, at least not yet.”

I’d like to consider the
possible ramifications of what she knows but the play of light from the
torchères along the swell of her breasts proves too distracting. All I can do
is stare at her.

She looks up, meeting my gaze.
Something flickers behind her eyes--uncertainty, arousal, some combination of
both? She frowns, as though confronted by a puzzle she is determined to solve.

“Do we know each other?” she
asks.

“You tell me. Do we?”

A flash of annoyance darts
across her face, further knocking me off balance. Clearly, she resents my
refusal to be more forthcoming.

With hindsight, I realize that
I’ve made assumptions about her that urgently need to be revisited. She has a
far stronger will than I expected as well as the courage to act on it. That
could prove troublesome but at the same time I can’t deny that it’s highly
provocative.

I’m far more entertained by her
than I expected. Far more aroused as well but I can control that. I have to.

“I feel as though I should know
you,” she says. “But at the same time I’m fairly certain that we’ve never met
before.”

“We haven’t.”

She seems to accept that, at
least for the moment. I draw her into a conversation about the finer points of
war theory. She has a fairly comprehensive grasp of the subject. If this was an
interview for a job with my firm, she’d be acing it.

We’ve gotten to a comparison of
the differences between Clauswitz, Machiavelli, and Sun Tsu when Hodgkin
appears with the entrees. Mine is a filet in peppercorn sauce. Hers is pasta
primavera. When he’s poured the wines and departed, I realize that she’s
staring at my plate with what can only be described as salacious intent. I can
practically see her mouth watering.

“I thought you didn’t eat meat,”
I say. Susannah didn’t. I expected Amelia to be the same.

“Don’t I?” She’s still staring
at the filet. If she’s anywhere near as avid in her other appetites--

On impulse, I move her plate and
glass off to the side and put mine between us. I cut a small piece of the filet
and offer it to her. She hesitates but the temptation proves too much. As our
gazes meet, she reaches for the fork.

I withdraw it slightly and say,
“Open your mouth.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she
does so. I make a mental note that she can be compliant when she’s given
sufficient incentive and take the piece of filet off the fork. Using my
fingers, I slowly slide it between her lips. Her small white teeth grab on and
do the rest. By the time she finishes chewing and swallows, her eyes are closed
and she has an ecstatic look on her face.

My cock, which has been hard
since she walked out onto the gallery, jerks. I shift in my seat, suddenly
fighting for control.

She opens her eyes, looks
straight at me, and smiles. “More?”

Oh, yeah, baby, definitely more.

She gets all the steak, every
little morsel of it along with most of the cabernet that I give her in small
sips from my glass. In return, I get to watch her. That’s enough for the
moment, if only barely.

I’ve never seen a woman do
better justice to a meal. The little sounds of delight that I don’t think she
even knows she makes are uncannily like the run up to orgasm. I’m having
trouble breathing when, with a last lick of her lips, she sighs in contentment
and sits back.

“That was so good,” she says.

My mind is staggering from her
natural eroticism to the fact that I’m never going to be able to look at
another steak without getting a hard on.

“Dessert?” I ask.

Her eyes widen as she suddenly
seems to remember herself. Staring at me, she turns red. Not a delicate blush
but the real deal that flows down her slender throat and all the way to her
breasts. Through the fabric, I can see her nipples harden.

Apparently, I’ve pushed a button
but how exactly? Purely in the interest of scientific inquiry, I sit back and
study her.